


The Theatre of Warring Kingdoms

by ShakespeareanMusings



Series: The Theatre of Warring Kingdoms [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, Incest, Intrigue, Multi, Smut, Treachery, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-09-14 04:56:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 93,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16906521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShakespeareanMusings/pseuds/ShakespeareanMusings
Summary: Same theatre, but a different play. Aegon Targaryen never united Westeros under the Iron Throne. Aegon Targaryen never became King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. Aegon Targaryen never ventured west.Instead, he went back east. Instead of King, he crowned himself Emperor. No War of Conquest was waged, but a War of Restoration. With fire as the hammer and blood as the anvil, Aegon the Restorer forged an empire from the ashes of the Freehold.Now, three hundred years later, the Holy Valyrian Empire stands as the mightiest of nations in the known world, but that may very well change soon. The mummers of this play will sing a song of war, betrayal, love and intrigue. A song that will echo through the ages.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the grand work 'The Conquest', by DolorousEdditor, a concept I practically started obsessing with.

**A Change of Heart**

**When Aegon Targaryen looked from his balcony railing towards the East, towards the lands of Essos and what they once meant to him and the Targaryens, he saw the past of his blood. Once, it was glorious and without peers, a magnificent jewel with no equal in this world. Now, it had grown old, tired… lost even some might say, brought to heel by the ravages of the Doom.  
**

****Aegon Targaryen saw no future for himself or his descendants in Essos. But when he looked west, however, he saw opportunity. Rich and fertile fields stretched leagues upon leagues beyond, gold in the ground, gold in the fields, and not a single dragon in the sky but his own. Westeros was a greater and easier prize to be claimed in his mind.  
** **

******Yet, the pulls of his heartstrings beckoned him to lands more familiar. To home, that was left destroyed by the ruptures of the Doom. Aegon Targaryen looked back East, and saw a dying civilization within a smouldering cauldron.  
** ** **

********But a civilization that still held a chance for survival.  
** ** ** **

**********Aegon Targaryen brought to heel Volantis and halted her ambition to inherit the legacy of the Freehold by force, and took upon himself the mantle and aspiration left behind by Triarch Horonno and Aurion the Lost Dragon. To breathe life into a restored realm of the Valyrians.  
** ** ** ** **

************Aegon the Restorer, the First of his Line, Forever Elevated, Most Serene Emperor of the Valyrians, returned and forged an empire in the lands of his ancestors with fire as his hammer and blood as the anvil.  
**By his will and the might of his dragons Balerion, Meraxes and Vhagar, Aegon Targaryen alongside his sister-wives Rhaenys and Visenya reconquered most of the lands lost during the Century of Blood, and brought with him unprecedented peace, stability and prosperity. At its zenith, the newly established Holy Valyrian Empire reached from the mouth of the Rhoyne to the remote isle of Lorath, from the Stepstones of the Narrow Sea to the rim of the Great Dothraki Sea. None could hope to rival the might of New Valyria.******  
** ** ** **

****************But after three hundred years, the unchallenged and august era of the Targaryens may perhaps have waned. No longer are the dragons there, the supreme rulers of the skies, and thus, no longer do the Targaryens hold absolute power over their dominions. Rhaegar’s Rebellion has left the Empire divided and discontent.  
** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

******************To the east, coming from the Great Grass Sea and the lands of the Harpy, an ambitious Khal rallies the khalasars to his cause to flood upon the Empire whereas the daughters of Old Ghis grow bolder in their hatred against the Dragon Emperor. Internally, strife threatens to topple the precarious balance which the Empire poises itself upon, with factions plotting to support different candidates to the Obsidian Throne.  
** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

********************To the west, the Sunset Kingdoms are entangled in their feuds since the migration of the Andals, undisturbed by the affairs of the dragons in the east. King Tywin envisions a hegemony with his dynasty on the throne of all Westeros. The Gardeners of the Reach are, as always, drowned in indulgences and pleasure. However, they are not wholly unaware of the gyrations around them and speeches about a future marriage between the Rose of Highgarden and the Young Lion stir the nobles of the South. The Stormlands and Dorne are on the brink of open hostilities with the murder of Prince Lewyn Martell at the hands of Ser Gregor Clegane. Dorne finds itself sequestered and cornered by the lions of Casterly Rock, and wishes to seek aid from the Empire. The Vale has retreated back into itself, with the Arryns adopting a policy of isolation. The Starks of Winterfell no longer only wear the Crown of Winter on their heads, but since the Liberation of Riverrun, now also wear the Crown of the Trident. The High Septon, embittered by the strings of failed Holy Reclamations against the heathens of the East to reclaim the holy lands of Andalos, plots to crown a rival to the Emperor of New Valyria and unite the kingdoms of Westeros under the banner of the seven-pointed star. And the ironborn are abiding their time, with a certain Greyjoy dread lord spreading fear and terror wherever his dreadnought goes.  
** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

**********************Unbeknownst to all of them, a great threat is stirring in the white reaches of the Lands of Always Winter, whose history is as chilling as the winds beyond the Wall. An ancient evil who will remind all of the meaning behind the ominous words ‘Winter is Coming’.**  ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

* * *

**~Father tried to groom Aegon for the Obsidian Throne, and Jon pitied Father for the effort, for it was so visibly futile. Rhaegar Targaryen, for the past fifteen years, was busy beating a dead horse. Father always reminded not only his _bloody heir_ , but all his children, that the Empire was a sacred family and the emperor its holy father. Egg never saw the value of family, so how was he supposed to understand? Let alone be a father to an entire empire?~**

* * *

**FOOT OF THE PAINTED MOUNTAINS**

**JON I**

The dirt was rough and unpolished under the hooves of Jon’s destrier, proving to be a palpable bother for a horse to tread upon. A rider would feel the uncomfortable bumps every time his horse reached the peak of its gallop, shifting the saddle right and left and then right again, causing a ripple across the lower body. Itching blisters would form around the insides of their thighs at the incessant movement. Jon would know, for he had them himself in the past. 

The region was rugged and unfriendly, with uneven ground spread across the arid plains, no speck of vegetation and very few trees to seek cooling shade beneath. The trees that were around only seemed to be a handful of gnarly reeds, a wonder they grew at all in such dry patches of land. Gusts of dusty wind rolled down the sides of the jagged mountains, whose peaks were dipped in a hue so silvery, it was akin to the cones of sugared ice sold by the flattering merchants back in the streets of New Valyria.  

The sandy gales buffeted Jon’s face, grazing his skin with their little stony fingers and making the prince scrunch his eyes unpleasantly in an effort to protect them. Essos was a land festooned by garlands of scratching dust and dirt, bringing irritation in their wake when blown across the land. Too long exposed in such harsh circumstances would mould any meek boy into a hardened man grown. Any smudge of greenness would surely be pecked clean like the ravenous dedication of vultures upon a carcass.  

The horselords were masters of the plain fields. Guttural rackets of the Dothraki usually accompanied a charge so powerful the very earth resonated with their prowess. But here were no smoothened fields, and thus, Jon had chosen this place as his theatre of battle.  

For days, he tried to seduce the Dothraki into giving chase, parading himself as a fat slab of meat ready to be torn apart by rabid dogs. Khal Drogo’s military and strategic competence, when put against his own was similar to pitting an ape against a seasoned strategist in a game of cyvasse. But even Khal Drogo knew his riders faced unfavourable odds should the field of battle not be a smooth plot of green grass, but a collection of hilly teats too cumbersome to ride around. Jon knew horses were at their strongest if their hammered hooves trampled over their enemy in a deadly charge. He would not gift such an advantage nor opportunity. The Great Khal wisely spurred his khalasar like a derailed stream of patched leathers and horsehairs back to the Great Grass Sea when Jon marched his legions towards the valleys of the Painted Mountains.  

His bloodrider Haggo was not of such a mind. Splintering away from the main body, the hot-headed ko of Khal Drogo found himself disagreeing with his master and took the reins in his own hands. Haggo rode with his own khalasar to meet and break swords with the black-haired Targaryen. Jon had waited long for this opportunity to arise; the rash decision of a barbarian too lousily equipped with wits to recognize his own folly.   

Now, seated on his black destrier atop a cliff, Jon’s eyes drank in the countless horsemen led by Haggo, right towards the eager pikes of his men.  

The Seventh Imperial Legion served under his command for three years uncomplainingly. Jon was a devoted son to a stern father, and so too was the Seventh Legion devoted to Jon. If he ordered a stance, ten thousand infantry would stand rooted to the ground and hold the line. If Jon decreed a rout and chase, three thousand cavalry would run their spears through the backs of fleeing enemies. If Jon willed it, thirteen thousand soldiers would march straight through the smoky remains of Old Valyria and back for him.  

“The fuckers are holdin’ the line. Can’t say that about a lot of men. Most would piss their chainmail at the sight of thousands of Dothraki riders screamin’ for blood.” Bronn smirked, cocksure and easy-going. Bronn was not a man of scruples, and a mincer of soft words even less. His expression showed that as he watched alongside the dark-haired prince and his entourage over the battlefield. 

“These aren’t ordinary men, Bronn the Andal.” Thoros of Myr responded, caressing his red amulet. “Forged by R’hllor’s divine flames you’ll find no army more terrifying than the Seventh Imperial Legio–.”  

“–For fuck’s sake, your rattling about your fire god will drive me to the edge of madness one of these days.” Sandor Clegane groused loudly, roughly stowing a wineskin after taking a greedy swig. “About to piss myself from all this waiting.” 

Bronn laughed sardonically. “Got no one but yourself to blame for that. Your belly must be a wine cellar by now, with all that Myrish piss water slurring around. Have to keep that inside still for a wee bit longer, hound. This ambush was set it up prettily by the prince and we can’t afford it be dragged down into the muck now by your need to piss all over the place.” 

“No, we can’t.” Jon’s eyes glanced further away, up the hill to the west, where the Ninth Legion had itself concealed. He needed Haggo’s host closer into the valley for his plan to succeed. “Just a couple of stretches further, and they’ll be trapped between a rock and a hard place.”  

Inspired by the lockstep legions of Old Ghis, Jon had formed his spearmen in an identical formation to answer the notorious Dothraki charges. The story of the Three Thousand of Qohor proved to Essos that a Dothraki charge was as unstoppable as one believed it to be. If Jon believed his spearmen were courageous enough to answer the charge of a Dothraki assault, they were obliged to consider themselves capable of repelling such an attack. Jon was not one to throw away the lives of his men thoughtlessly after all.  

Even from this distance, the winds carried the dark sounds of bloody screams. Of men punctured by spears or cut down by arakhs. The dead littered the ground beneath them, riddled with spears or hacked to pieces, both men and horses coating the soil red with their entrails. The iron smell of blood filled the air around them with naught to repress its spread. Amongst the dead, the living soldiers persisted stubbornly. 

The first charge had ended. Jon’s line stood firm still.  

To answer this defeat, Haggo regrouped his men and then mounted another, bigger charge, eager to break through the ranks and cause mass hysteria amongst the Valyrian soldiers. No doubt his pride as a renowned Dothraki lord took a severe blow after his failure. His desires were plain to see; the entire khalasar would ride with him this time.  

“They’ve closed in, Your Highness. Close enough for the jaws to snap shut. Just as we hoped they would.” Thoros observed keenly, spurring his horse a couple of times to ready him. All of Haggo’s horde now descended to fill in the ranks of the upcoming charge.  

This is what Jon had waited for. The prince gave a curt nod to his companion, and it was all the red priest needed before he grabbed an arrow from its quiver and dipped it in putrid oil. Setting it ablaze, Thoros launched it after he took aim, sending the arrow high into the sky. Like the trial of a falling comet, it soared through the sky, bright for all to see how it climbed higher, higher and higher until it reached its peak and dipped downwards. A sword sung animatedly as it was drawn from its sheath, and Jon brought his legendary Valyrian steel sword Blackfyre to his face.  

The Dothraki had now amassed a fierce momentum unlikely to be brought to halt, but Jon did not need to face this assault. His plan had succeeded in luring Khal Drogo’s ko deeper into the vale. As the arrow reached its climax, the lines of Jon’s legions broke up and flooded to the sides, allowing entrance for the Dothraki riders. In their confusion, the Dothraki lowered the intensity of their charge, breaking up their full gallop into a more organized canter.  

Haggo believed he faced a single imperial legion, whose hasty retreat led them towards the ridges and hills of the Painted Mountains. The area was undesirable for battle. Rough and scabrous ground, hills erected here and there and patches of thickly forested leafless trees. It was treacherous to believe these plains offered any comfort for an army.  

But no mountain range could betray Jon, for the second son of the Holy Valyrian Empire knew exactly how to make use of his surroundings. To take advantage of his opponent’s weakness. Riders were at their greatest disadvantage here after all, as Haggo’s horde solely consisted of lightly-clad cavalry. 

“Now is our cue, Clegane.” Thoros grinned. The hound had donned his canine helmet already. Bronn’s horse was neighing as his rider kicked him awake, face contorted in excited anticipation. 

“Heard the Dothraki love fucking like dogs! Let’s see if they’re as gracious in receiving as they are in giving!”  

Jon’s personal retinue consisted of Bronn, Sandor Clegane, Thoros of Myr and a handful of lightly armoured cavalry. The four of them drove their horses away from the ridge and aligned with the remaining seven thousand soldiers hiding behind their hill.  

Jon’s black beast of a destrier galloped towards the head of the reserves and the prince spun his steed around in front of the glaring sun. “Form ranks! Cavalry, take the sides! The Ninth Legion will soon be upon them from behind!”  

Before Jon and the Seventh Legion marched through the entrance of the Painted Mountains, he split off his swordsmen from his spearmen and dug a defensive line. His plan was relatively simplistic in nature, but onerous to pull off; once Haggo found himself too deep in the arms of the mountain’s valleys, a turnaround would be impossible without a full rout. Jon knew better than anyone else the arrogance of Khal Drogo and that of his kos. He had fought the Dothraki for five long years, and knew them to sooner suffer an excruciating death by having their fleece enamelled with greyscale than let the back of their khalasar break on the edges of the mountain’s jagged cliffs. To avoid that catastrophe, nothing else but a full charge breaking the lines of the imperial vanguard could bring Haggo relief. Jon had no intention to give quarter to his adversary. And neither did his frontline. 

It was no surprise that the horselord realized too late that he had sprung a trap, for as soon as the full might of his Dothraki horde regrouped and lined up for another mighty charge that quaked the very earth, their prowess and might undeniable, Jon beckoned the advance of the one force formidable enough to make a Dothraki horde run cold in its tracks. 

While fifteen thousand horses and the Dothraki screeches were enough to make a man’s heart quicken its beat in terror, the tremors caused by ten war elephants put those efforts to shame. Once, it was the roars of dragons that made the Dothraki reel back in fear above all else. Now, it was the march of war elephants. 

Jon watched as the earth was stampeded flat of all vegetation by their hammering legs as the elephants energetically charged forward. The great grey-skinned beasts trumpeted loudly and the soil beneath their feet dented with each great step they took in their gallop. A terrifying sight to behold were the armoured beasts, with thick bronze plates around their heads, sides, and bellies, the glimmer like that of giant fireballs rolling down the highlands.  

None matched the flair and skill of the Dothraki in horse riding; they ate, slept, coupled even on horseback if some scholars were to be heeded. They were a people with thick warrior’s blood and ferocious mettle. Their ruthlessness was a terrifying scourge for the green boy who had never before lifted a sword or spear. It was known. But soldiers, they were not. That was known too.  

The Dothraki were not spoken of in the same breath as a disciplined army, a seasoned legion or other organized military force. At best, a glorified bronze-skinned battering ram made of flesh, blood and bones. At worst, a coterie of dull-minded savages. And what good is a battering ram if it cannot break open a gate? The Seventh Imperial Legion was a child of sheer discipline and commitment, and if they closed the ranks, it was as impenetrable as Valyrian steel armour. As unfuckable as the cunt of an old tavern wench, as Bronn had once jested. 

The Ninth Legion emerged fully now, entirely covering the ground behind Haggo’s host and cutting off his retreat. Their war elephants were deployed before the vanguard and trumpeted a thundering charge, mirroring its counter. A legion held within its ranks more than two dozen war elephants, but the circumstances did not allow such stakes to be set, for the vale was far too narrow and partisan to favour full elephant charges. Neither did they favour a full Dothraki charge either. The horselords were forced to ride ten horses abreast in order to properly allot room. 

Jon donned his black helmet with the red three-headed dragon emblazoned on it and drove his shadowy stallion ahead. His seven thousand swordsmen soon merged with the remaining thousand spearmen and gathered behind Haggo’s horde, each step of their march a war drum signalling their descent upon the enemy. They caught the Dothraki in a deadly pincer movement with the Seventh Legion in the front, and the Ninth behind them. Fifteen thousand Dothraki raiders were ensnared in the reaches of a total of thirty four thousand soldiers; ten thousand mounted, twenty four thousand on foot, and twenty war elephants.  

What ensued was a one-sided bloodbath.  

The battlefield was a red theatre, the clashing armies orchestrating a cacophony of steel battling with or finding purchase in muscled flesh and sinew. 

First contact came when the war elephants either stampeded or impaled the unfortunate Dothraki riding in the front. They laid utter destruction upon their ranks, the anguished Dothraki screams like a haunting lullaby sung by thousands of skewered bards. It was a sight straight from a story told to frighten children.  

Jon was an excellent coordinator and lined his heaviest war instruments just so like the jaws of a ravenous beast gnashing its teeth on the horse and man flesh of the Dothraki.  

They pincered the enemy seamlessly, and when the dust settled, the elephants scampered, their charge calming into a dodder until they were guided to the sides. What remnants that survived the brutal clash with the elephant charge were taken care of by the spears and swords of Jon’s staunch infantry and cavalry.  

The prince found himself within the thick of battle. He dismounted his horse and fought unhorsed arakh wielders, dispatching them just as easily as he would freshly mustered green boys. With the grace of a black phantom, Jon danced with Blackfyre in hand to the tune of a soundless symphony, composed by the fingers of death itself. Each strike was a fallen enemy, each twirl drawing red mist and pained grunts. Jon was making them sing the song of defeat. 

Bronn was not too far away from him, sheathing his longsword into a frenzied Dothraki and spilling his guts out for the world to see. Neither were Thoros and Sandor Clegane keeping themselves cold from battle as the red priest’s inflamed sword severed a head clean from a horselord’s torso, whilst the Hound impaled another with his greatsword and lifted him up high. Blood was everywhere, in equal parts, smeared on clinging swords and jutting spears.  

“If I find any dead man’s blade not tainted by these horsefucker’s blood, I’ll rape his fucking skull open!” Clegane roared, holding a Dothraki by the throat and splintering his skull with a bone-crushing headbutt.  

A howl of laughter pierced Jon’s eardrums as Bronn cut down another Dothraki. “You heard the dog! Best not have any swords clean lest you want a trout of a pecker to impale ya dead body!”  

If anything Jon’s conscience did not take appreciate, it was how his companions (Bronn, Clegane and their ilk) jested during armed conflicts. His ears did not need to hear their paltry attempts to forget the very dangerous chance of a blade swinging around and biting into their skulls, by hurling around perverted jests and lewd howls. The only handful of soldiers not vile-mouthed but privileged to ride alongside the imperial prince were Thoros of Myr and the commander of the Ninth Legion, Thorio Fhaenyl. 

In the midst of all this madness and fighting, a duel-wielding Dothraki hacked a bloody cut through Jon’s troops, his set of arakhs coated a glimmering red. Each swing of his arm was married to a spell of Dothraki curses. Each soldier that impeded him became naught more than another corpse at his feet. Armour was nowhere to be on this living effigy of a warmonger, Haggo’s lips parting to voice a bloodcurdling roar for each life he took. 

 **“Haggo! Put an end to this folly, stallion rider! Yield, and your death will be merciful!”** Jon’s Dothraki thundered across the field of battle, as the Targaryen prince, in his scintillating black armour decorated with countless blood rubies along the midst of his chest plate, swung Blackfyre in the sunlight and aimed its end towards the enraged horselord. Jon’s brown curls were kept free to try and catch the wind’s harsh tugs. Jon had waived his right of wielding a helmet. He preferred the enhanced vision over protection. Jon wished to meet Haggo on somewhat even terms, and the armour coiled around his body felt constricting and difficult to breath in, while Haggo wore naught but mottled patches of boiled leather covering his shoulders and torso. His trousers were made of horsehair to cover his legs and hips. Between an armoured prince and a horse rider wearing little more than animal hides, the advantage was clearly tipped in Jon’s favour. Haggo was not deterred by the black plates, however. More so, his blood probably sang with sheer excitement at facing the prince of the Holy Valyrian Empire who’d waged a devastating five-year long campaign against the Dothraki.  

 **“You’ll sate my arakhs’ thirst for vengeance well with your blood, dragonspawn! I’ll sooner drink poison water than do your bidding! You speak of mercy!? When I’m done cutting you to pieces, your severed head will be sent back to your father as a reminder to not trifle with the Dothraki! That will be my mercy!”**  

Haggo’s steel was viciously curved and well-forged for killing. Blackfyre’s chive sang melodiously as it clashed with every swing dealt to it. Jon was impressed by the quality of Haggo’s instrument. Valyrian steel could slice through anything, even through its cousin of lesser attribute, as though it was made of fermented cheese. But his arakhs proved to be resilient too, not cringing beneath the strength of Valyrian steel. 

The horselord lacked no talent nor eagerness for fighting, the prince was certain by the way Haggo wielded the two arakhs like they were an extension of his arms. He ruthlessly hacked away in abandon around him. Each strike was parried or evaded with the grace and speed of a feline. Haggo had talent, undeniably so. But Jon had more than talent. He wielded skill as well.  

The prince was one of the more uncommon sword wielders in the Empire. Many were content to wield a sword in their strongest hand, but Jon was not. He was made from a different kind of steel, as he wielded not one, but two swords. He was blessed by being dual-handed.  

Alongside Aegon’s legendary sword, a second one strapped to Jon’s back, was unsheathed to greet his opponent, gleaming brightly like a ray of moonlight. Haggo’s feet betrayed him for a second as he halted his forward march. He eyed Jon’s second sword, looking jarred momentarily. 

 **“Valyrian steel swords are not a common sight these days. One so magnificent as the Restorer’s even less. Its secret presumed lost when the Doom consumed my ancient home. Qohor proved the world otherwise. To match Blackfyre’s shade, the smiths of Qohor bent over the anvil for nine days and nine nights without rest to bring light… beating hammer upon steel until their fingers burned. Now,** **I will honour them by drawing it against the Empire’s most resilient foe. To you, I present Blackfyre’s newly forged twin…Brightflame.”**  

House Targaryen’s heirloom was an eponymous sword, with its hilt, blade and pommel of blackened steel. The other one was a gleaming beauty, its namesake after a Targaryen not of the clearest of consciences, but fitting nonetheless, with the guard a stark contrast to its twin. Instead of an obscure allure, its luminosity glimmered akin to the break of day. 

Drogo’s ko lived up to his reputation as a fearsome warrior. Their duel felt like it raged for hours, neither side giving an inch of ground. Theirs was a dance of steel; a contest of who was the superior dancer. One misplaced foot, and the other would take the stakes. And the stakes they placed were their very lives. 

A sideways strike from Jon was parried by Haggo’s arakh, whose hasty reaction met the blow, the shadowed blade of Blackfyre clamouring a loud and deadly tune. Jon never allowed his opponent to savour the luxury of time to react properly and thrusted Brightflame viciously forward as a follow-up, intent to streak the ground with blood. Haggo reacted with surprising agility and evaded the blow before it could fatally wound him, only grazing some leather from his torso as he was struck, a grunt escaping him. In kind, Haggo used his momentum as an advantage and poured his weight into pivoting his feet and bringing a deadly slash to Jon’s midriff. Jon brought both of his swords just in time to block the attack and push his adversary back. Such was their dance; a performance of graceful steps, quick swings and swift twirls. 

Around them, the sound of battle was in full orchestra, metal meeting metal or cutting through the flesh of their intended. The Dothraki were losing themselves in their war-cries, a sound so utterly guttural and terrifying, a lesser man would have lost himself in fright.  

But in the end, no matter how much alleged demon blood coursed through Haggo’s veins or the Dothraki, finer steel, better armour, greater experience and tactical superiority eventually tired out the bronze-skinned horse rider and the horde following him. He was a horseman, after all. His battle prowess was ever so enhanced by the hooves and stirrups of his steed. And he had no stallion now beneath him. 

Haggo’s movements became sloppier, predictable and overall easier to answer. With a timely sweep of Jon’s arm, the prince brought his opponent to his knee by seamlessly cutting through the sinews of his heel while ducking under a horizontal swing of Haggo’s right arakh. He collapsed on one knee, face scrunched in agony and his arakhs dropped to his sides, roaring all the while in pained fury.  

Around them, the theatre play of battle was coming to a conclusion, with the remaining Dothraki being routed and put to heel.  

Jon hovered over the kneeling Haggo, Brightflame and Blackfyre still drawn out and slick with blood. Jon’s hands were still twitching and trembling as the agitating feeling of clashing steel had yet to leave his veins. His blood was still roaring with life, heart thumping loudly in his chest. It was elevating. It was blinding. Battle always left the prince in a trance of complete equilibrium. Naught entered nor crossed his mind during these moments. It left him numb to everything. Until his senses returned to him, pouring over his mind with the strength of a great torrent. The aftermath of it all never failed to hit Jon like a warhammer in the chest as the world came rushing back to him. Jon craned his head around, sucking in air like it was water and he a man in drought. It was then he realized the full extent of the _slaughter._  

Dead bodies, gored, mangled, trampled, it mattered little the way they graced the ground, they blanketed the earth like a sea of death all the same, of Valyrian and Dothraki origin. Even some of his war elephants were not spared from the ordeal, riddled with spears and arrows despite the armour that should have protected them. The Dothraki were smart for aiming for their eyes and mouths. 

The haunting sound of feeble moans permeated the ears as men, barely clinging to life, scrambled and crawled aimlessly, trying to find purchase in something, anything as though salvation was but an arm’s length away. Some missed an arm, or two even, and others lay crushed to a bloody mess, like a serving of scrambled eggs, only far messier and sanguine in its content. Innards caught the fancy of a swarm of crows and vultures, eager to feast upon the dead, not above taking part in a free meal. Bodies were sizzling in the warm glares of the great sun, baking them and empowering the appalling smell of death, with blood still dripping and turning the ground mushy, wet and warm beneath the feet. A feeling of nausea crept upon the prince.  

An hour ago the field was filled with peaceful silence. 

Death now reigned over this place. 

Death and war. 

It was macabre and poignant to bear witness to.  

A feast for crows. 

Strangled coughs pulled Jon by the ears back to Haggo’s defeated form. From the distance, Bronn and Thoros made their way towards their prince, swords pressed in their palms and fresh with the taste of battle. Jon took a firm grasp of Haggo’s braided hair, soft sounds of bells chiming the only form of protest.  

 **“You won’t be needing these.”** With a clean sweep, the braid was snipped off and thrown before Haggo’s knees, whose infuriated eyes spat fire at the Targaryen. Jon’s knowledge of their barbaric customs after five years of non-stop conflict was second to none, and the message he conveyed with this single act spoke more than a thousand words for the Dothraki riders.  

Haggo’s eyes spoke volumes as he glared at Jon. 

 **“I will have your head for this.”**  

Jon stepped upon the bells of his braid, crushing them. **“No, you won’t. The only glory you shall henceforth know is a thousand faces mocking you for the rest of your life.”** A side glance was given to the red priest of R’hllor, who had climbed down from his horse. “Clad him in chains. This horselord will be a token of our victory here. He’ll spend the rest of his miserable life amusing the audience of Aenar’s Arena.” What little Haggo understood of the Common Tongue, he began to find meaning in Jon’s words. His arms flexed and Drogo’s bloodrider rose to his feet with a roar.  

 **“Kill me or release me, dragonspawn, but I refuse to be paraded around like a common whore!”**  

 **“You’ll be** **_exactly_ ** **paraded around like a common whore for all to see.”** Jon glared back. **“The citizens of New Valyria will receive you with loving arms, I am convinced. At least in the imperial amphitheatre, you can keep making a spectacle of yourself. Until a blade is driven through your skull, at least.”**  

Profanities and the likes were hurled towards the Targaryen prince when Bronn rode up towards the small circle of soldiers, the Westerosi taking the chains and dragging Haggo back to his knees.  

“Come on now horse lover. You’ll like the capital. I certainly do and it’s not them tight cunts they’re serving up there what makes me keep coming back, though they’re certainly a tasty treat.” Bronn looked him up and down with his mirthful eyes from his destrier. “Sadly for you and your lot, only thing you’re gonna eat from now on is a paltry bowl of shit surrounded by your fellow rapers and raiders.”  

Bronn could not help but let out a bout of laughter while mocking Haggo into the dirt as he pulled the chains alongside two other soldiers. With that taken care of, Jon’s attention shifted towards other matters. A black-clad spearman took a tentative step forward and saluted his prince with the formal greeting of a fist pressed against his heart. 

“Your Highness, by your ordain, what of the remaining survivors?”  

Jon scowled. The air around them turned cold, as though touched by winter’s kiss, chilling and unnerving. Thoros gave a bemused look but did not break his silence. Instead, he shifted in his saddle and opted to hear his lord voice his decision, even if he already suspected it.  

A dark shadow fell over Jon’s face, stern and cold for the onlookers. He took a glance at his men, all of them battle-worn, exhausted but still going about their tasks as they were trained. Uncomplainingly, they continued, as was expected. The prince knew what he was supposed to do with Haggo’s broken khalasar.  

“Dothraki are a vengeful people, and don’t take keenly to suffering a defeat. It’s known how grudges come easily to these prideful horse riders, and how very difficult it is to put them to rest. I’ll have an easier time convincing Bronn to shirk the brandies of Myr after a successful campaign. We have no use for any of those grudges beginning to take root. The Empire has had enough of these Dothraki’s hotblooded passions of plundering, raping and raiding.” 

The decision Jon took weighted on his heart, but the prince was perfectly aware of the necessity.  

“And so, wreak havoc, and let slip the hounds of war.” Jon commanded coldly. He felt like winter’s herald himself, the icy words leaving his lips swiftly. For a moment, Jon accredited him, the soldier remained impassive, but that peculiar glint across his eyes was not lost on the prince. Apprehension. 

A simple fist to the heart and a slight nod and Jon no longer felt the presence of the soldier. He felt his heart tighten for just a second as the implications of what transpired between them planted their roots, giving him pause.  

He just gave the order to commence genocide, and this man did not even flinch.  

What was he to make of it?  

“My prince, we should set up camp and discuss further preparations.” The red priest’s hand rested firmly on Jon’s shoulder, rousing him from his thoughts. Thoros had his suspicions of what the prince was brooding about and took off some of the burden by reminding Jon to carry on with his duties. Wits gathered again, Jon nodded to his companion, climbed atop his horse and galloped off towards the settling encampments, the red priest following closely.  

Thoros was correct, as he was most of the time, there was indeed a great deal of work to be prepared further.  

Jon decisively won the battle today, and if he wished to garner further victories, the groundwork of further plans had to be made. He had no mind to pay thought to the executions of enemies. If Jon did, the past would eventually have crushed him beneath the countless decisions he made that resulted in mass slaughter. Jon kept telling himself that it was for the sake of the Empire. His past decisions could not weigh him down for eternity. For how long he could tell himself that, he was not quite sure. This campaign of his was a highway. He was not the only one going down this path. Jon had to see it through until the end. His decisions were like the gusts of wind carrying the sands, always behind him. If Jon was not careful, sooner or later, they would come clawing at his face. 

Their destriers cantered over the dirt. Jon took in the soldiers rising from their labour to greet their prince commander. Their backs were slightly hunched, the movements of their limbs duller than usual and there was a tone of fatigue in their greetings. Morale was at a low for his soldiers. Jon needed to bring change to that.  

His eyes travelled to a jutting hillside not too far in the distance, a good place to gaze over the vale the battle had commenced in. Jon spurred his dark horse forward into a gallop and made for the hillside, until he tugged at the reins and brought the beast to a doddering stop. Thoros had caught up to him, his curiosity bringing him here and see what his prince was planning.  

“Grab your horn, and summon their attention.” Thoros reached for the bullhorn fastened to his side, and drew in a deep gulp of air. And then blew. Its bellow was boisterous, and every single helmet turned to its source, stilling their hands with whatever work they were doing. 

 _“_ Soldiers of the Empire! Heed my voice and listen!” Jon commanded, every soldier straightening to attention. “When I look upon the sum of you, our proud dracolifers carrying the imperial banner in the wind, I see the might of New Valyria in its full glory! A rising sun! A great dragon bearing down upon its enemies with its mighty fangs and scorching flames! Time and time again, we have fought against the hordes of the Great Grass Sea, and time and time  again, we have cut their braids!”  

Jon could hear the cheers, but the flicker of passion was not ignited into a bonfire yet. He needed to be more vehement.  

“When I first rode out five years ago, at the mere age of ten-and-four, astride my horse with nothing but my wits, armour and swords, I joined the imperial legions to find purpose and meaning. Two years later, I was given command over the lives of fifteen thousand. A mere boy. A novice so green I could have pissed grass.” The soldiers chortled. Jon felt a smile form on his lips. “We were fresh young soldiers when we left the gates of Aegon’s Wall, eager to fight and prove our mettle. Unaware and unafraid of the scourge of war. And look at us now…” The soldiers were hanging at his lips, listening at rapt attention. 

“We have carved, marched and paved a bloody path to our victories. Yes,  the cost of victory, we know. We have lost brothers, we have lost comrades, some of us have even lost their lovers to the sword… but never. Have. We. Wavered!” The last three words were roared out, the strength of thousands of soldiers joining in the chorus, slamming their shields and swords together to further their clamorous passion.  

“For those who think the Empire to be weak, I say, think again! Bear witness to what the grand legions of New Valyria did today and quake before their fearsome march! We are the sons of New Valyria! And we shall bring to heel any that dares to stand in our way! With fire and blood, we will bring glory to the Valyrians! Glory to the Empire! Now! And always!” 

“Now and always!” 

“Glory to Prince Jon!” 

“Glory to the emperor!” 

 _“Glory to New Valyria!”_  

Thousands of soldiers picked up the cry, deep within their throats roaring in High Valyrian the might and glory of the Empire. Their spirits were raised high, so high they could mayhaps touch the gods in their high heavens, and Jon saw no more huddled backs and sagging shoulders. In its cadence was optimism and power, conviction and aspiration. It left Jon content somewhat to know he could inspire such fervent emotions.  

Yet, his own heart still felt encumbered with something unexplainably obscure. It barred him from sharing in the swirling flux of enthusiasm. His words tasted like ash if he was to be honest, like he was spinning lies and deceit.  

Winning glories for an empire that was built on the bones of broken backs, did there truly lie any honour and prestige in? Or was it foolishness to believe such things? A spell made to beguile oneself and unwittingly become a puppet to the Empire? Jon was not so certain. The more he pondered about it, the more Jon’s thoughts wandered off. In his musings, Jon drew comparisons between himself and Father, a man also embroiled in the Empire’s spiderweb. Father was so burdened, a mere twitch in the wrong direction could prove his undoing. For if Father did, the spiders would come and devour him in an instant.  

Was Jon just another instrument for the Empire? 

Another means to an end?  

Another victim entangled in its web? 

Perhaps he was.  

Jon was loath to admit that, in the end, he did not mind to be as such.  

It at least spared him from a far crueller fate.  

A fate he barely had the stomach to think of.  

Hours later and Jon found himself sitting at a desk and going over stacks of documents, his table decorated with numerous plates of exquisite food. Wheels of cheese, bowls of broths and stews, warm-baked bread, cuts of venison and boar and splendid wines all had a betoken place given to them. A meal worthy of a prince. His beloved Valyrian steel swords were put on a rack above him, neatly placed and sheathed in their warm coffins of expensive elephant leather. Their hides were decorated in Valyrian symbols  

His dark hair was out of its tail for once, the locks tumbling down freely in curly abandon, framing the sides of his face. A piece of bread, half-nibbled and forgotten, and a goblet of wine half-empty were next to a piece of paper Jon was currently reviewing. His appetite had waned for some time, the bread and wine a testimony to that, and thus Jon opted to further the tedious paperwork instead. Only, it was not so tedious for the black-haired prince. Each of the documents were inked with the names of fallen soldiers.  

Names of fathers, sons, brothers, husbands, more of the same. Splotches of black ink painted the table beneath his work dark, a token of Jon’s lack of resolve to maintain his paperwork with a lucid head. Troubled he may be, Jon still wanted to do right by these names. When their chains tagged with a small square piece of metal were given to him, Jon delved into his work. The amount elicited a frustrated sigh out of the Targaryen prince. Today his legion had suffered two thousand losses, and many more wounded, the bulk of it made of spearmen that took a stance during the initial Dothraki charge. Jon did not view himself as a muser nor an optimist. He was fully minded of the truth that battles all had a dear toll to be paid; the price in lives and blood.  

 _I condemned thousands of men to their deaths or agony today in order to bring Haggo to his knees. You would think after five years, it would become easier to shoulder. It never does._   

Jon knew the price, and he paid it in full. It was why he risked himself in battle day and in day out; to futilely elevate the undimmed guilt every time he suffered losses from a battle, telling himself that if he threw himself into the fray and wagered just as much his own life as he did theirs, the gnawing that turned his stomach to ribbons would dissipate. It never did. His heart still felt heavy knowing that good men now embraced an eternal sleep for his victory. Again. And he was here, seated inside his tent, alive, warm and well. 

 _The death of a loved one is a tragedy, but the deaths of thousands is merely a mark._   

Jon grimly remembered the quote from one of his books during his youth, a tome provided during his martial lessons with Arthur Dayne.  

Soldiers were the embodiment of a harsh truth. No such thing as bloodless battles existed. One conscribed into the imperial legions had only one way to die; a sword in hand and the Empire’s glory on his lips. A dreary way to have your flame snuffed out. Aegon said that many times.  

Egg once told him that you could hear in the streets of Volantis, the slums of Pentos or the pillow houses of Lys songs of their bravery, of their courage and mettle for staying staunchly true to the Empire and its tenants. Mummer’s tears, all of it. Not a shred of sincerity in their displays. Perhaps even meant to mock. Aegon certainly meant it so. The sot never lifted a sword in his life, what did he know? A soldier’s purpose in New Valyria was eerily familiar to that of the Unsullied. Only the desperate and foolish would willingly take the red.  

When shielded by the scant folds of his tent or the sheets of his featherbed, Jon would rub his black-bearded face and pray to whatever god was listening for their forgiveness once the inevitable clutches of death grasped him as well and he was to see the fallen soldiers again and answer for his decisions. Those two thousand fallen soldiers were no mere figure to him; each and every one of them was a tragedy on their own.  

Jon was too engrossed in his own broodings that he failed to hear the cloth of his tent move. The subtle rustles of the wind caught his regard and when he looked up, some of his forlorn spirits were lifted, if only by a nail’s length, as a familiar face entered and nodded in greeting. 

“Prince Jon, I offer my congratulations for today’s victory. Your speech has invigorated many within the legion. We must count ourselves fortunate for a leader such as yourself.” Jon curtly nodded and brushed his fingers alongside a map of Essos, tracing the Painted Mountains thoughtfully.  

“We’ve fought the Dothraki long and many times enough, Jalabhar. Khal Drogo will consider caution, for now, but the stallions always grow antsy without battle to warm their blood. He’ll gather his remaining khalasar soon enough, and when he does, we’ll be there to break his back again.” Jon replied with a slight turn of his head. 

The Prince of the Red Flower Vale smiled tentatively and he firmly took hold of Jon’s hand when he was offered one. His skin was a colour of dark wood, like ebony, yet most of his clothes were contrastingly colourful. Feathery and bright they were and equally eye-catching, typical for the people of the Summer Isles. Jalabhar and Jon were good acquaintances for a long time since the Summer Islander came before the Valyrian court seven years ago. He petitioned Father to help him retake the Red Flower Vale. Jalabhar tried any trick he had hidden to convince the emperor to assist his reclamation of what he considered stolen from him. All of it in vain, Rhaegar did not even consider the idea, not even when Jalabhar swore to give his fealty to the Targaryen Monarchy if they succeeded.  

He was a curiosity at court, with his ostentatious colours and eccentric Summer Islander customs. The courtiers found him quite pleasant, Jon took stock of that, and fair to gaze upon with his muscles nakedly on display, and he did bequeath a few of them during his audiences. Perhaps even bedded some of the more ribald and curious women. Jon had no interest in Jalabhar and his ambitions. Not yet at least. 

It was when they crossed swords did Jon acknowledge his presence. A good swordsman, Jalabhar Xho accomplished a feat seen by few warriors. He bested Jon, the prince Rhaegar spoke of as one of the greatest swordsman in the making, who received his training from High Commander Arthur himself. He was rewarded with acknowledgement where it was due. When Jon rode out two years later with the banners of the Seventh Imperial Legion, the Prince of the Red Flower Vale entreated, almost beseeched him, a place amongst his ranks. And now, Jalabhar led his own company unto the fields of battle.  

Since that day, Jon trained his swordplay harder than any day before. Five years without stop. Its end result was the undisputed reputation Jon had within his own legion. Not even Jalabhar stood a chance against his dual swords. 

Jalabhar enjoyed the after taste of a victory more so than others. He was found most of the time with a wineskin in hand and declaring his intent to bed the priciest bedwarmer in Volantis upon their return. This time, he was eerily quiet for a change, and the prince noted his lack of enthusiasm.  

“My prince…” a letter was fisted in his hand, Jon had not noticed the piece of paper while he sauntered around the tent, too immersed in his thoughts. He had just noticed how Jalabhar gazed at his feet, unable to meet his eyes; Jalabhar was not one to lack confidence, but the way he stood stock still rooted to the ground reminded Jon of the Blackguard and their statuesque vigil. “A letter from the capital came. It bears the imperial seal.”  

“Many in the capital are within finger’s reach of the imperial seal, Jalabhar.” Jon snorted. The Treasurer, the Emperor’s Hand, the Speaker of the Elder Council, the Empress Consort herself, were a few examples. Even low dignitaries were sometimes mandated with the most powerful symbol of authority in New Valyria. “A letter stamped with the imperial seal is no reason to break a sweat.”  

Jon smiled fondly as a memory came to mind. “Years ago when I was but a boy clutching my mother’s leg, Dany robbed Mother of her seal and requested outrageous amounts of sweets to be brought to our quarters. Our hands were sticky with sugar, cream and sauces. The both of us made a complete mess of ourselves and our rooms. I can still remember how sore and red they were when Mother got a hold of me. The same day Egg and Rhae decided to squeeze their way out of the Scarlet Palace, my and Dany’s mess an ideal distraction to take advantage of and escape the confines of our golden cage. The streets of the capital were filled with Blackguards all day long. Not a single stone was left unturned to find my brother and sister. Father never scolded the four of us so much as he did that day.”  

Jon felt himself grow wistful, his earlier good mood making place for something far more dour. “Father poured his frustrations into our ears and rang our heads like the chantries of Baelor’s Temple. He always incited that feeling of apprehension inside us. Always lectured, always expected, always demanded. Always something. But he never quite loved us.” Jon brushed past a few papers on the desk, his brooding frown returning to him.  

Rhae yearned for his stern hand but could not please as he wished. She was Dornish through and through she was told, never shy to voice her mind, never reticent in her confidence. A witty and shrewd woman, but lacking any restraint. Jon once counted how many times Rhaenys boasted that she would one day would sit beside Aegon as his wife and rule the Empire together.  

If only she knew Aegon would shove all his duties onto her and rather find himself buried deep inside the cunt of some Lysene pleasurer. Piercing Aegon’s veil of mock innocence was impossible for his sister, when it came to their beloved brother she was blind. Rhaenys was an excellent player of the game of politics with her knowledge of intrigue, but she was a fool for Egg.    

Not that Aegon cared. Aegon never cared. For anything. He never cared enough to save his own hide from Father’s disapproving eyes. He found actual amusement in defying him even. 

Aegon aspired to wear the crown one day, truthfully, Jon was sure of that at least. Aegon dreamed and bragged about it, but the yoke sutured to that crown he would rather shirk of course. Aegon would instead parade around with the imperial crown as yet another trophy to boast about and entice young maidens to warm his sheets.  

Father tried to groom Aegon for the Obsidian Throne, and Jon pitied Father for the effort, for it was so visibly futile. Rhaegar Targaryen, for the past fifteen years, was busy beating a dead horse. Father always reminded not only his _bloody heir_ , but all his children, that the Empire was a sacred family and the emperor its holy father. Egg never saw the value of family, so how was he supposed to understand? Let alone serve as father to an entire empire?  

Dany was Father’s beloved little sister, but the age gap was leaps and bounds and she might as well have been his second daughter. Dany was most privileged out of all of them; as free as a bird whose cage was limited to the depths of the deep seas and the heights of the high mountains. Loving, spoiled to the bone, bonny, and wilful Dany. Emperor Rhaegar’s little princess sister.  

Uncle Viserys, he _insisted_ to be called as such, was a calamity in the making. Jon reckoned that Father married him off to the Dornish princess, Arianne Martell, to remove him as far from the seat of imperial power as possible, for the very fact his quirks and proclamations sometimes sounded much the same as the Mad Emperor’s, to Father’s utter horror. To wed him to the future Ruling Princess of Dorne, was a savvy move in more than one way. To secure further Dornish allegiance, and to avoid having to mind a madman free to spout nonsense as he wished. 

Then there was him.  

Prince Jon.  

The dark Targaryen.  

The dutiful son.  

The spare.   

Jon knew Father loved him, he did not renege that, but His Imperial Grace, Rhaegar Targaryen, the First of his Line, Holy Valyrian Emperor, Scion of the Dragonlords and Sovereign of the Nine Cities, was as dutiful as Jon. He reminisced hearing Uncle Aemon lament over Father and his burdens. 

 _Tragic, that is the single most defining word that I can think of about your father, for he is a man driven by love, but burdened by duty. Duty and love are each other’s nemesis, dear boy. One must die for the other to live, neither can live for the other to survive, for love is the death of duty and duty is the bane of love. What is duty compared to the loving touch of a wife? The feel of a newborn child in your arms? How can love prevail if the Empire is poised on the brink of catastrophe, neglected and forgotten under the sceptre of uncaring and inept rulers? How can your duty prevail if that very duty will demand of you the ultimate price? What choice would you take? The heavy burden of duty? Or the destructive downfall of love?_  

Rhaegar Targaryen chose duty over love in the end. His loyalty to his duty was a dagger through the heart of his loved ones. 

Rhae, Egg, Dany, he, all four of them had a father, and at the same time, they did not. They shared Rhaegar Targaryen with his imperial duties. Most of the time they did not even share, they lost; bereft of their father to the Obsidian Throne and its crushing demands. Skipped in precedence, passed over in importance. Father always fought a battle between the Empire and himself, and purposely lost each one of them.  

There was no other alternative. Each defeat for the family was a victory for the Empire’s road to greatness.  

Small loving smiles, tender touches or encouraging words, were far and scarce, and children had a need for those from a father. Rhaegar had no time for such mundane things. The Obsidian Throne drained him of all life, time and blood. It kept feeding off of his soul and left naught but a living husk of greying flesh and tired bones at the end of the day. Why? Because the sins of Grandfather Aerys still haunted Father.  

Egg was embittered for the negligence, Rhae was ever so desperate for the smallest sprinkle of praise and unsatisfied even after, always striving for more, and Dany did not care at all for the lack or abundance, she was free to do as she pleased anyway. Three children, three instances of potential and all three of them lacking in the end.  

Jon was his father’s son _and_ his mother’s son; Jon was fortunate enough for having a dedicated mother. A mother who stood for two parents. Mother tried to be as such for the other three. She really did try for Egg, for Rhae, for Dany, to be the matriarch they deserved, but in the end, it was to no avail. Aegon dismissed her from the start. His sister and aunt, Jon was not so sure. Perhaps there was affection between them, but little at best. Blood runs strong after all, and Lyanna Stark shared none with them. 

But she did with Jon. He was the blood of Old Valyria and the First Men. Mother lectured him much about honour and duty many a times. How family stood above all else. Those lessons were what shaped Jon into the very man he was today. The fruits of a mother committed to raising a noble son. 

Jon’s exasperated sigh gave Jalabhar reason to leave the prince’s tent, and so he did with a swish of his colourful feathers, pushing away the clothes, and Jon once again drank in the neatly scribbled words of Father’s impeccable writing, not quite believing a simple piece of paper could bring him so much distress.  

It was an imperial summoning.  

From his emperor father.  

“Apparently, Father does remember the namedays of his children. How quaint of him to summon me now.” Jon murmured to no one in particular. He finished rereading his father’s curly script, then tossed the letter into the flames and watched it burn and join the pile of crispy ashes beneath. Who was he trying to fool, Jon’s thoughts already suspected the reason for his father to decree his presence in New Valyria. 

In a couple of moonturns, his brother Aegon would turn twenty, the proper coming of age  and be introduced formally to the Empire. A festivity for the ages, Jon was sure of it. Combined with the spreading news of Jon’s great victories in quelling the Dothraki’s ambitions, Father was surely in preparations to remind and indulge the people of the glory of New Valyria’s imperial family. Which meant he was to be expected home. For the sake of consolidating power. 

Sweat pooled on the pale flesh of his wrinkled forehead, sticky, salty and warm to the touch. Jon felt a droplet trickling down his cheek and hanging off the cusp of his jaw before it fell down onto the ground. Twenty years living in the searing lands of Essos and his Northern blood still cried out against this unbearable heat. Though he had never placed a foot in the North, Jon was sure he would find the colder touches there far more bearable than this scorching heat. 

His bedsheets were left entangled, a piece of twisted art born of his restless turns and kicks during the nights, too bemused to let his mind rest. Sleep did not come easy to him these last days, eluded him like patrons avoiding a harlot with a venereal disease.  

Much weighed on his mind. The number of casualties he suffered throughout his long campaign against the Dothraki was on the forefront, but something else plagued Jon far more conscientiously than the deaths of the faceless. A seed that was planted in his mind five years ago, by his father’s hand no less. A future which the more he wondered about, the more he ground his teeth in frustration.  

Jon was given five years of respite and relief; five years to do what he was best at yet always carried out with reluctance and a mind of unease. Jon excelled in fighting and waging war. He was said to be a brilliant strategist and seemed to be unmatched in swordplay. They always said that people love that which they were good at; fishing, painting, sculpting, riding. Jon did not love what he was good at, but it provided an outlet for his frustration and an escape from a fate he dreaded more than perpetual fighting.  

Now, with that letter eaten by the flames, with this damnable piece of knowledge, Father reminded him that the time trickling down the hourglass had come to an end, and he was now expected to fulfil that very fate. His father’s will. 

To one day sit beside his hedonist of a brother. 

And serve as Hand of the Emperor. 

If Jon was right in his assumptions. 

He would witness the renaissance of Aegon the Unworthy.  

* * *

**STORM’S END**

**SANSA I**

The weather outside the castle lived up to the Stormland’s epithet as a region of tempests and thunderbolts, unrelenting whips of winds blowing about. One could let loose an aurochs in the courtyard and see it lifted up towards the heavens and carried off by the powerful gusts. The stone walls were scourged by the winds, beaten and pushed at, small breaths creeping through the crevices and nipping the castle to its very bones. Even though the walls were smooth and curving, it allowed the winds to creep through the narrow cracks. According to legend, the stones were so well placed and so perfectly fit together, Storm’s End would never allow the wind to find purchase. It did this time; as if the castle had lost a part of its essence. Lost its spirit as the seat of House Durrandon. And with it, its impregnability. 

The dull grey walls of Storm’s End were not strong enough to block out the wailings outside, thick enough to allow two carts right through its portcullis, but not enough to quiet the howling winds.  

 _The screams of banshees. The queen mother’s screeches are a very similar noise._  

The rain was as unforgiving as the winds blowing through the land, with large droplets cascading down from the heavens and trickling down the stained glass blown in Argella Durrandon’s image, as though the ancient queen suffered the tears of a mourning lover. It gave her an evocative beauty. Argella Durrandon was beautiful in Sansa’s eyes; strong, fierce, as unmoving as a boulder.  

 _Nothing like a frail winter rose such as myself._  

Winterfell, her beloved home, was a warmer castle than the seat of the Stormlands. Her bygone days here in Storm’s End made her wonder how such a thing was possible; for a castle in the south to prickle the skin far more and make it prim with gooseflesh than the likes of Winterfell. The days were pleasant and the nights cooling, summer solstice compared to the harsh conditions north of the Neck.  

Moons later, and Sansa found the truth behind that baffling realization. Not because of the lack of hot water coursing through the walls, Storm’s End could make do without that. No, the reason for this castle to suffer such a cold, depressing and dismal demeanour was simple.  

Its king was rotten to the core.  

His mother the queen dowager was not his better. 

Seated in a chair in front of a tall looking glass, a hand kept brushing the auburn locks of Tully hair belonging to the eldest daughter of King Eddard Stark. Once a vibrant and lively bronze, her hair had now dulled into a harsher colour as time passed. Her locks became less fair to look upon and less gratifying to card a hand through. Once soft as Lysene silk, now it was thick as ropes. Sansa felt a great deal of pride once, when her hair shone so bright and felt silky soft. Now, as if the gods decided to pull a cruel joke on her, they stripped her of her last joy as well.  

 _Mother’s gift to me, now a grim reminder of where my heart truly belongs._  

Her eyes fluttered shut, and for a short moment, Sansa reminisced how her king father once held her tightly in an embrace, full of love, full of devotion, as his strong yet gentle hands rubbed the back of her head, comfortably rubbing her scalp with his fingers. How he whispered his goodbye to her that day with great reluctance when she was to depart and head south to her betrothed. The small signs of tears threatening to spill from his eyes were there and Sansa took note of them with a lump in her throat. King Eddard Stark though stood like a statue of ice and betrayed no ounce of grievance, unlike her.  

Robb enveloped her an embrace of his own, less firm than Father’s but no less loving, and the corners of his eyes desperately tried to hold back tears as he smiled a final time down at his sister.  

Mother was less reserved in her emotions and kept fidgeting with her locks during their embrace, fussing over here and there like she was still a duckling and not ten-and-five, a woman grown and flowered, ready for her dreams to come true and marry a dashing southron prince. Rickon and Bran were too young to understand the hassle, but once word reached their little ears that Sansa was to leave for the south and not come back for a long while, if not for the rest of her life, her youngest brothers wailed as they clung to Sansa’s skirt, pleading desperately for her not to leave. Each tear they cried was a piece of her heart torn, and she could not help but shed a few tears of her own as she pulled the two boys into her arms and peppered them with soothing kisses.  

Arya, well, Arya was a different child altogether. A Stark of the truest breeding. None of Mother’s influence, both outer as inner, unlike Robb, Bran, Rickon or herself, was evident on the younger daughter of Eddard Stark. Long-faced, dark-haired and grey-eyed.  

Sansa was praised as a delicate and traditional beauty with finesse, courtesies and manners, prettily made hair plaited in southron fashions and demure river eyes. A lady of the highest propriety. A beauty raised like her mother.  

Her sister was her counterpart in that light; mayhaps lesser in her beauty, but still complimented as a sight. More of a wild beauty, a fierce beauty. A beauty that had yet to flower. 

Like Aunt Lyanna, or so the lords of the North said. 

Her clashes with Arya were known through Winterfell. Their bond was cordial at best and thorny at worst, yet their departure was the most heart-wrenching of them all, Sansa found. She loved Arya with the fullest and most sincere affection, equally to rest of her siblings. They never went out of their way to show the depths of such sisterly love, until the day came when she had to depart from the safe walls of Winterfell.  

 _Don’t you dare lose yourself down there, Sans. Always remember who you are and where you’re from._  

Sansa still remembers her sister’s slender arms wrapped tight around her, prickling her sides like a phantom’s touch. Arya’s face was flushed and buried in her chest while incoherent babbles escaped her little sister’s pouty lips. As she lifted her face up, stricken and wet from fat droplets of tears to meet her own watery eyes, Arya looked every bit the fearsome she-wolf Sansa was wont to know, despite her sadness for all to see. Arya’s last words were forever engraved in her heart. 

 _You’re a Stark of Winterfell, a direwolf at heart, don’t ever allow them to turn you into a stag._  

Sansa had wanted to spurn her sister’s words badly that moment, but for the sake of this heartfelt parting she chose not to. Inside the walls of her heart she did that day reject Arya’s words before leaving behind the North what she thought would be for good. How would it not be? She was to marry the future Storm King himself, so she was expected to shed the grey and white colours of House Stark and be draped instead with the gold and black of House Durrandon.  

Now, six moonturns later, Arya’s words rang truer than anything else she was ever told and Sansa Stark started to live by them every day she languished here in Storm’s End, clinging to them like a lifeline, for if she failed to hold on to that frail line of hers, Sansa feared her mind and soul would shatter beneath all the hollow smiles, the obedient curtsies, the false compliments and most of all the cruel treatment she was coerced to endure by the stags of House Durrandon. 

 _The foul halfwit and his mother are no Durrandons. Lion’s blood runs too thick in their veins, and even acting a lion Joffrey still falls lacking._ Many a servant commented in lulled tones and behind covered hands. _He may style himself Storm King Joffrey I, but he’s little more than a flimsy fart._   

Thick lips once flawless in their courtesies and compliments spoke only humiliating insults, obscene threats and painful punishments nowadays. Curly ringlets of golden hair, eyes green as emeralds cursed with envy inside them, tall in his stance and overly cocksure in his swagger, Joffrey Durrandon was a lion in stag’s skin. Everything he inherited came from Cersei Lannister, as though he suckled all his traits straight from his mother’s bosom. Not a tenth of his father’s robust girth, his onyx hairs or his sapphire eyes could be found on Joffrey’s person. A Lannister in all but name, the castle whispered.  

Sansa knew only of her soon-to-be-husband, but Cersei had birthed other children during her time living in the halls of Storm’s End. The Queen remembered them far more wistfully and longingly. The Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen, Sansa remembered. They were fostered by their grandfather King Tywin Lannister in Casterly Rock. She knew little of them, but if the eldest son was any sign, Sansa was sure the other two members of Cersei’s brood could not be much different.  

Joffrey was a lanky boy overly eager at playing king and tragically lacking all the wits to do so. Once, Sansa was enamoured, besotted even with the golden prince of Storm’s End. Now, he made her only feel frightened and bereft.  

Her betrothal had seemed like a dream come true. A story worthy of comparison to the likes of Florian and Jonquil. It was the result of her father’s and King Robert’s long standing friendship. For years had the late King of the Stormlands begged a Stark hand, for he himself was gainsaid one when Aunt Lyanna spurned him and married the Holy Valyrian Emperor. To honour his friend’s memory, he agreed to the proposal posthumously, between herself and Joffrey who was not yet coronated as king. 

She was always raised by her queen mother to one day become the lady of a great castle, or a queen herself. She knew naught else since the age of three, when the people of the North already regarded her as an impeccable lady. To bear her beloved husband many golden-haired sons that would make people smile with their striking eyes alone was her lifegoal. Mayhaps she would be granted a few daughters if the gods were good, and then live a content life as her husband’s lady love. And as if to answer her dreams, the Durrandons had sent envoys to Winterfell to try and broker a marriage.  

Starry-eyed, Sansa had gazed upon her future betrothed’s painting for hours on end in the past. It was a gift from the Durrandon royal family, painted by a talented artist and brought with one of the artisans sent to represent the Durrandons in Winterfell. Whoever was requested to bring Joffrey’s face to life on a piece of white canvas was surely paid a generous boon for his service. Sansa juxtaposed herself then and now, and realized she was more in love with that lifeless painting than the boy himself.  

In the starless nights Sansa cursed herself profusely as she stared at the black velvet canopy of her bed, her grey bedsheets a tangled plight from troubled fits. Each sob was coupled with long streams of tears running down her face. Her juvenile heart was torn asunder and her rosy dreams dispersed in a swarm of flies. 

 _The songs never mentioned the bruises._  

Sansa’s firm beliefs that the lives of princesses were all rosy-coloured, full of love, sweet songs, and passionate dances made the slap of truth across her cheek hurt tenfold, if not a hundredfold. The dreamy flutters inside her belly all toppled down in a violent descent, giving way to a tight knot forming in the pit of her stomach.  

 _The songs never mentioned the scars._  

She was a foolish, blind girl. Her eyes were curtained from the ugliness of the world and her life drowned in the falsities of the songs of brave knights, gallant princes and pretty flowers.  

 _No more._  

Her mother once bemoaned how Sansa’s beauty was a waste to keep in the dreary North. How she would blossom as a rose in the South, surrounded by similar pretty flowers and waiting to be plucked by the worthy hand of some prince. 

 _Lies and illusions._  

 _No more._  

 _No more shall I be a foolish dolt of a girl._  

 _No more of their petty cruelties._  

Her dreams were a lie, so easy to indulge and lose oneself in. Joffrey and his mother served to open Sansa’s eyes to the ever bitter truth of it all; sobering, unwanted, but desperately needed. 

Someone knocked on the doors leading to her chambers, soft and meek, drowned out by the whips of the moaning winds. Any lesser person would have failed to pick them up. Sansa heard them still. Her ears were sharper than a well-kept knife, a useful gift she gained by having squandered so much time roaming these dismal halls darkened by small green-lit torches.  

When not trotting about Storm’s End, she would keep Queen Cersei company. Once, it was a pastime she looked forward to. Now, the winter princess absolutely dreaded every second she was forced to hear Cersei Lannister, whisper poison in her ears.  

 _Men consider a sword forged from Valyrian steel the greatest weapon a warrior can wield._   

With a goblet of wine in one hand, filled to the brim with Arbor gold, Cersei smiled her gilded smile down to any lady present; full of that Lannister arrogance the castle dwellers hissed about.  

 _My little doves, for us women, it’s so much simpler yet far more effective to get what we want. Take note, for I will bestow upon you wisdom._   

Sansa remembered feeling bile rise in her throat at Cersei’s next words, as she sat among the ladies present.  

 _Women need only to spread their legs, fan their eyelashes, arch their backs, puff out their chests and smile coyly to win their battles. Even the great Emperor of New Valyria would drop to his knees before you. There are few things more dangerous than a woman with fine features. Always keep that in mind._  

Cersei’s words fit more the likes of a mistress educating her courtesans and running a high-priced brothel than a dignified Queen with a court full of prim ladies. She had to suppress the tingling shivers of disgust down her spine from where she was seated. Merely an inch away from her soon-to-be good-mother she was, and Cersei would surely have picked up on the movement, pointing that characteristic frown of hers towards Sansa, the haughtiness of Cersei’s eyes communicating her disdain. 

Another pair of knocks, this time more pronounced, and Sansa was brought out of her stupor, placing the brush on her night table.  

“Enter.” And the door opened with a soft creak, a maid curtsying and Sansa smiling at her. “Come in Ashlyn, it comforts me to see you here.” A shy smile graced the girl’s fair features.  

Small and slender of frame, black-haired, green-eyed and pretty of face, the dangers Ashlyn’s beauty brought upon her deeply saddened Sansa. The knights of Storm’s End were a paltry lot, pathetic and vain, it was not beneath them to enjoy an unwilling maid or two. Meryn Trant and Boros Blount were prime examples of such depraved knights. Sansa was not sure, but this girl looked more Durrandon than its own king. If she was born with the sky in her eyes instead of the grassy meadow, Cersei would have surely had her banished, or maybe even executed. She certainly banished the blacksmith’s boy when she learned of his parentage.  

“The onions are peeled and smell of air. Would milady be willing to beware?”  

Sansa caught herself staring into the looking glass right at Ashlyn, the brush in her hand halted in its movement. Her face was stone-carved, betraying nothing. Anything that hinted at fear or excitement was finely concealed. Sansa rose from her warm chair and grasped Ashlyn’s arms.  

“Are you certain? Has it come this far?” For a second, the thrill slipped through her lips as Sansa peered intently into her only friend’s viridescent eyes, whose terse nod was all the answer she got.  

Sansa scolded herself for her loosening restraint and her grip lost some of its strength. Sansa was very cautious to maintain her meticulously created veneer and her heart feared that even the tiniest of cracks in her mask could very well subjugate her to the cruelties of betrayal all over again.  

For all she knew, Ashlyn, as dear and sweet as she was, could feed her even sweeter lies, act a mummer and when the time came, bury a twisted knife in her back when the moment called for it.  

Such were Joffrey’s serpentine tendrils and how far they reached. Sansa would not find it beneath the Durrandon king to beget such a foul and callous jest upon her; urge a maidservant to befriend the little winter rose, mollify her frightened heart and make her feel at ease only to swipe away the ground beneath her feet the moment Joffrey deemed it timely. With only a snap of his fingers. To find a taste of freedom and snatch it away just as quickly. To free the little bird from its golden cage only to put the poor creature back a second later. Cruelty came naturally to these people, she had witnessed it. And they took it in stride. No doubt Cersei had tutored his beloved little lion in the arts of beating hapless people with a stick.  

Dwelling on that possibility was a lost battle, for if it truly would end as her worst nightmare brought to life, Sansa would steel herself to no longer live in fear of Cersei’s, Joffrey’s and all the other’s unscrupulous sneers. Naught more she was left to endure anyway. Sansa would rather rob herself of life than walk down the aisle of Stoney Sept, take Joffrey’s colours and suffer throughout her life as that halfwit’s Storm Queen. To be bedded and bear the children of such a man. The very notion once filled her with warm delight, now it did little to make her feel such. Rather, her skin crawled with the feeling of a thousand little creatures skittering across her flesh at the thought, bile threatening to spill from her lips. 

“Milady, we must be on our way. Now.” Sansa nodded and when she was done plaiting her hair into a simple braid, she began rushing around her chambers. 

“Of course Ash. Help me pack the necessary belongings.” 

Ashlyn began fussing around her, going around the spacious room and trying to pack a few sets of clothing and whatnot. She was to pack lightly. Only that which she deemed absolutely necessary; no frilly dresses, heavy jewels and fragrant potions, but warm clothes, sturdy travel boots and small satchels of coin and gems. Sansa expected the journey to be long and in poor conditions, from Storm’s End to the destination she had in mind. Edibles such as dried beef, pieces of bread and skins of water were a must for the travel ahead.  

During all the commotion, Sansa recognized a dress Ashlyn had draped over an arm, while trotting about the dim-lit room carefully; a gown beloved Jeyne gave her as a parting gift, and Sansa placed a hand on the girl’s arm stopping her from her work to look up with question across her countenance. 

It was a beautiful piece; the fabric, laces and decorations worthy of royal praise. Jeyne was a better seamstress than herself, something she admitted with quiet and good-natured envy. Jeyne Poole was her closest friend and always shared her dreams of the south, making sure she was of contemporary knowledge concerning all the styles ranging across the kingdoms of the south; from hairstyles to jewels, from silks to perfumes. Sansa always reasoned that once she would become the Queen of the Stormlands, she would forward a missive back home and request for her friend to make the journey south and attend to her as her handmaiden. Sansa wished for at least a face she was familiar with once she had settled in. 

“Not that one Ash. Only the most needed. The dress would stand out and take too much room.” Her bright eyes lowered and Ashlyn offered a terse nod, placing it on the bed. A part of her grieved at the loss, the dress holding worth to her still, as if she threw away Jeyne’s efforts callously. It was one of the few things she still had of the North, of home. Now it was another severed and broken bond. Another part of Winterfell, another part she had to part with. 

Her mind pushed aside that notion, and Sansa composed herself and concentrated on the task at hand. She had to be strong and brave. 

Ashlyn had gathered the necessities quite rapidly, only taking a short while during the hour of the nightingale, and Sansa blessed the docile girl for her efficiency. Throwing a great black woollen cloak around themselves, Sansa and her companion were convinced it was time to depart.  

Once, she dreamed of a gallant knight with a great army at his back, who would storm the impregnable castle and break the chains they threw around her. Free her from her fair-haired tormentors. Sometimes, Sansa dreamed him to be Robb, her brave brother with his glossy Tully hair so much like hers, or Father with his greatsword Ice clutched in his strong but gentle hands cutting down any and all who dared standing between him and his beloved daughter. Offtimes, it was a strong and brave handsome knight with long dark curls and gentle eyes, like Prince Renly the Fair, whisking her from the darkness and delivering her back into the arms of her loving family. Oh how many times she wished for the Fair Stag to save her from these cruel people. She had pleaded with her eyes for him to help her, save her, but all he gave her was a pitying glance and small words of unmeaning comfort.  

 _You must endure it, my princess._  

 _Smile, don’t let them feel like they have broken you._  

 _I cannot help you in this, I must regretfully admit._  

Sansa had come to resent him for his foolish words. For all his smiles and chivalry, he was craven to refuse the pleas of a hapless girl. No knight would ever refuse the call of a princess. She was done with anything that had to do with gold. Fair hair and bright eyes were blinding. Sansa was ought to see the truth, for those were the dreams of a foolish little girl lost in the vestiges of her fantasy.  

As days turned into a sennight, and a sennight into moonturns, Sansa felt her hope waning, until naught was left but a gripping chasm of despair. But she found her resolve, and refused to fall into the abyss of depression that threatened to hold her heart in a vice-like grip.  

No knight would come and rescue her from the tall tower she was imprisoned in. As much as she wished to be the fair lady waiting for her saviour, she could not. An eternity she would have to wait for that to happen, and Sansa had no desire to live through an eternity of this. So, Sansa took matters into her own hands.  

Her maidservant went first, languidly removing the bar on the door, lifting the lever and slowly peering through the slit. Sansa watched Ashlyn’s back pointedly, holding her breath during it all. Ash threw a quick glance behind her shoulder and carefully nodded. Good, the halls were empty. Now was their time.  

Sansa’s and Ashlyn’s feet were soundlessly padding across the floor of the dim halls. Not a thing kept their small feet warm and secure from the cold stone floor. They had foregone and abandoned silk slippers for the sake of traveling quietly. Not even the thick-woven blue carpets offered a shroud of warmth to their little toes. Sansa had two pairs of traveling boots within her bag for herself and her friend. Their plan was to abscond from the castle’s premises noiselessly, taking every single measure to make sure they were not discovered. Wearing no silken slippers was one of them, Sansa had decided. Soft skin made no sound at all, she noticed, when treading upon the carpeted, chilling floors of Storm’s End. During an ordinary day, she was hardly noticed during her purposeless wanderings, almost gliding over the floor with her feet. With the storm thundering outside, Sansa and Ashlyn walked like black-clad phantoms.  

Over the moonturns, Sansa had mapped the entirety of the castle in her mind through the lonesome walks, taking stock of every hall, door, chamber and guard posted in their place. She did not realize when it all started to take shape in her mind. The days stretched long before an interminable litany began to chime in her mind, constantly and constantly droning on until she felt as if she was going mad. 

 _Escape. Escape. Escape._  

 _Flee. Flee. Flee._  

Absentmindedly, Sansa contemplated how she could possibly escape Storm’s End and its walls. She counted the seconds it took for the guards to make their rounds, allotting time for them to bother the scurrying maidservants, grab a few mugs of ale or bed smuggled harlots. The length of the corridors and how many seconds it required to cross one hall into the next. Where her chambers were exactly, where Joffrey’s chambers were, where Cersei’s chambers were. How many guards were standing about and in what places.  

Bit by bit, Sansa gained knowledge of every single detail of Storm’s End like it was engraved on the back of her hand. Not a single soul dwelling in these halls knew half as much as she. Five moonturns it took her. Five moonturns before she knew Storm’s End. She married the castle in all but name. 

To avoid another marriage entirely. 

Though their footsteps padded across the carpets of the floor, one with sharp ears could notice the quiet rustling they made. With the storm raging on outside, one could almost mistake it for the pitter patter of raindrops splattering to their ends, or little stones dropping into a river. The halls, empty and silent as ancient graves, were a queer comfort for Sansa. The hour of the nightingale was the second darkest moment of the night, and she had chosen the time correctly, for although the weak rays of the moon did penetrate through the windows of the castle, they did not bath the halls very brightly. Enough for a shade to remain a shade, whether living or imaginary.  

As they exited a set of stairs, the two girls took a turn to the left and entered the central halls of the castle. Sansa’s private chambers were in the eastern wing of the castle closest to the cliffs of Shipbreaker Bay, whereas Joffrey and Cersei enjoyed the safeties of the southern wings, not quite so steeply built on the cliffs, surrounded by the thickest parts of Storm’s End. The craven boy was of an age with her, yet his mother’s bed was but a door’s stride away from his own. He was a boy still clutching at his mother’s skirt.  

 _How could I have loved such a cowardly creature… Rickon has more of a man’s honour and bravery in his littlest finger than that milksop in his entire body. I will never fall for such glittery deceptions again._  

They rounded another corner, and to her surprise, and mounting dread, a few candles placed at interval illuminated the visage of a knight striding towards them from the end of the hall, clad in rattling armour, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. The dark hall almost made him invisible, but as the knight’s approaching form passed by a window, his helm reflected brightly in the moonlight. Upon it, a golden sunburst crest gave away his identity. Sansa froze. 

 _Ser Meryn Trant._  

In a panic, Sansa took a hold of Ash’s arm and pulled her flush against herself, tucking them both in a dark alcove. The black-haired girl made no sound, her back pressed tightly against the cold wall. Blue eyes met green, a short unspoken demand exchanged between them.  

 _Don’t. Move. An. Inch._  

The clanking of chainmail and armour filled Sansa’s ears like the drums of war, the loud thuds of Trant’s greaves like a hammer pounding a sword into shape. Each step he took was one step closer to their huddled forms; two girls in the shadows of a castle trying to escape their cruel fates.  

Now, the small voice in the back of her head had started to whisper again.  

 _She has betrayed you._ One voice would murmur.  

 _Cersei knew all along._ Another sing-song voice. 

 _Foolish little girl. No one can escape_ **_fate_ ** _._  

Her eyes widened in fear, further and further as each word dug deeper into her mind, settling their poisonous claws in and tearing her thoughts to garlands. Just a couple of steps left. Was this the end? Had Ashlyn truly forsaken her, like her paranoid mind had come to believe? Would she be beaten down to the floor, Joffrey’s cruel sneer sprouting from one of the halls and laughing at her suffering? Would Meryn Trant rip her clothes apart, take her then and there for the world to see? Defile her in every way possible with Cersei’s eyes showing naught but cruel pleasure and unadulterated disgust?  

Sansa’s breath soundlessly hitched in her throat. The Stark princess did not dare to let escape even a puff of air in fear of being discovered. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the Storm knight surveyed around, himself, looking for something out of place. All an act, Sansa panicked as she tried to further disappear into their hiding place. He knew the two of them were right there in that small nook huddled together, like cornered chickens ripe for the culling.  

Trant wanted to prolong the sense of dread before digging his mailed fingers into her arms and dragging her out of her safety. To do unspeakable things to her with a grin of malice; to commit affront after affront to her before the eyes of the gods right where they were. 

Only a small stride away. 

Until he finally stopped right next to them.  

Trant’s treatment of her only went as far as Joffrey ordained, and the Durrandon spawn allowed for Sansa to be beaten and bruised only. The punches and beatings were hard to stomach, her blotched skin littered with scars, scabs and swollen flesh a witness to it, but they went no further.  

Joffrey’s eyes did glint from time to time when humiliating ideas crossed his insane mind. He would voice them if he was deep in his cups. Wicked and perverted thoughts the foul boy held within himself, sometimes whispering them into her ear. Whispers of how his knights leered at her and that perhaps, he should at least let them indulge once in their lives. Let them have a taste of a princess. He cared little for her virtue.  

Joffrey would speak of the power he held over her and that her honour was at his mercy. She was his to torment. His to do with as he pleased. She was merely a little bird whose wings were clipped by his hands, feather by feather.  

Sansa dreaded Joffrey would one day decide to act upon his depravities.  

Sansa’s heart hammered in her chest wildly, each thump of her heart a thunderous bolt of lightning crackling in the sky. If anything would give away their small hideout, Sansa was sure her heart would be it. To her, the violent sounds outside were indistinct, mere noises compared to the rapid beatings of her heart.   

Any second, Meryn Trant would grab a hold of her and her attempt to escape this living hell would come crashing down around her before she had even reached the gates. 

It never happened. 

The knight resumed his patrol and marched onward with a grumble in his throat. 

“Can’t see a damn thing in these dingy halls…”  

Trant lifted a candle in its holder and continued to stride forward with the fire guiding him.  

The light provided by the torch retreated further and further into the hall leading to the eastern part of Storm’s End. To think if Trant had decided the lack of light irritated him earlier. Sansa thanked the Seven she was spared that fate by the skin of her teeth. 

“Milady…do believe it’s safe again…” With a careful turn Sansa gazed at her friend, her mind not yet fully recovered from the tension. “Milady? Everythin’ alright?” That did the trick finally and Sansa broke free from whatever spell held her rooted. 

“Y-yes, all is well Ash.” She gently caressed her friend’s cheek with her knuckles. “We have to hurry and reach the docks. The hour of the nightingale is short during summers. The Mother preserved us from that one fortunately, but I fear our luck is not without depth. We must make haste.”  

The pair emerged from the shadows as soon as darkness yet again reigned supreme over the hall, the girls padding along the carpeted floor, this time more hurriedly. Almost, her nerves managed to overthrow her calm, for Sansa fought the distinct desire to break into a run to reach the underground docks as fast as her feet could possibly take her. 

Shipbreaker Bay earned its notorious name well and earnestly; the protruding rocks scattered across the bay were a terror to navigate through, traitorous for the inexperienced sailor and a titan to overcome for hardened captains. Weeping Town was the largest port of the Stormlands, and many a ship would turn their sails to the town north of the Sea of Dorne to dock, resupply or muster. Storm’s End itself had a private dock, serving the purpose of keeping the royal family supplied through the sea if the land was blocked. The docks were built underneath the great castle, the only way to them a set of underground stairs outside the courtyard of Storm’s End.  

Ashlyn, as she had decided from the beginning of their attempt at escape, walked ahead and pushed the door leading to the kitchen chambers. During the hours of the night, not a thing inside the castle was left unlocked and unbarred, a precaution of the new king. Joffrey either feared assassins creeping inside Storm’s End or servants escaping from his miserable reign and Sansa thought both were feasible reasons to make the castle even more impregnable then it was. At first, Sansa was racking her brain trying to form a plan to escape the premises of the castle. For all her privileges, Sansa was still refused full freedom of the castle. 

Her friend Ashlyn had no such issues, for she was a mouse who crept through the tiniest crevices of Storm’s End. She knew the castle by memory like Sansa, and more. Very few things were deadlier than a servant wearing a mask of subservience; An innocuous serving girl going about and rinsing clothes, bringing food, cleaning up. Not a soul would expect different reasons for her to roam the halls of the castle than serving the royal household’s every whim. The servant’s rags Ashlyn wore were a perfect disguise for her intentions. 

“Come along, milady. Down the kitchens is a passage only for the smallfolk to come through. Wouldn’t want to offend them kings and princes when butchers and farmers come up through the main gate and hand over their stocks. Or so they say.” To Sansa’s surprise when they walked into the great kitchens, the hearths were blazing, the prickling heat searing and alive, and cooks were trotting about preparing the hares Joffrey had hunted yesterday with his coterie of sycophants. “Twas ordered by Queen Cersei for peasants to make themselves scarce. Think it was cuz King Robert once bedded a pretty commoner when she was to bring flour for her father the baker and accidently stumbled upon the king. He forgot his hunt, took the girl, and carried her back to the king’s chambers in less than a couple of strides. Would have been romantic, if the poor girl didn’t struggle all the way.”  

None of the cooks spared a glance to them, either too engrossed in their work or not at all caring. The cooks, after the maesters, were the most grey-feathered of all servants in a castle; their allegiance was to the pot, their loyalty to the spoon and their devotion to the dishes. Any king found worth in able cooks, even vicious half-wits like Joffrey.  

The last of the cooks were behind their backs and the pair approached a wooden door as decrepit as the maester serving House Durrandon. Small gaps showed where the wood had split, and as Ashlyn opened the door and Sansa placed her hand upon it to hold it open until she herself entered the darkness, her fingers brushed along the splintered surface and wet rotting wood. Disgusted, Sansa lowered her hand to her cloak and furiously wiped off any tinge of the door, hoping nothing was left plastered on her skin.  

Much like the door, Sansa found, the halls leading down were as moist and humid as the filthy door. Ashlyn had grabbed a candle in a shielded holder for guidance, bringing the flame in front of her and slightly lifting the dark veil before their eyes. Fat droplets fell from the roof steadily, each splash as loud as the former. Big fat rats infested the hall, scurrying here and there in a panic when revealed by the flame. The unsavoury smell around them clung to the moss covered stone walls, and it left Sansa a little heady.  

To keep herself poised, her small hand went to the side of the wall, feeling the cold of the stone wall through her flesh right into her bones. Sansa found herself regretting her action immediately when her hand found purchase in something soft, squashy and slimy wet. With a small shriek, she brought her hand back to her side, Ashlyn throwing a queer glance behind her shoulder. 

“Careful milady, don’t be wandering around with those dainty hands across the wall. You be touching something far worse than a fishspider’s lair.”  The word spider already had her skin crawling before the rest of Ashlyn’s words registered, and from that moment, she made a solemn vow to herself to keep her hands firmly locked to her sides.  

Sansa found the stairs steep and labouring to descend. Each step was more of a leap than an actual step. The muscles in her legs were burning from the effort, strained and tense from exertion. Sansa was determined not to complain; the little girl who fancied pretty things, poetry and songs had to be buried. Whining and fussing about any and all discomforts was part of that spoiled girl. Sansa was a woman grown, a woman flowered, a wolf of the North. She was ought to begin acting the part. Now was the time to show she was a hardened woman, not at all bothered by such hardships.  

 _Made from porcelain, to ivory, to steel._  

The descent was quicker than Sansa had thought as the steps seemed to gradually disappear until the flatness of the floor greeted her feet. As the two stepped through the entrance, they were greeted with a cavernous room, and Sansa felt flush with a new sense of strength when a tender gust of air caressed her pink cheeks.  

The stale stench was replaced by a wonderful smell, rich and full of promise. It filled her nostrils as Sansa took a deep breath in contentment. A certain greed urged her to fill her lungs to the brim with this marvellous scent. Sansa could taste on the tip of her tongue liberation and freedom; salty, fresh and oh so energizing.  

It reminded her of the serene North, where the smell of pinewoods and earth was just as fresh. Small flocks of longspurs and finches would be darting through the hickories and perching on boughs, singing a hymn for the passers-by. Snow owls and nightingales would take the sceptre during the twilights, murmuring a more placid tune in contrast, meant to lull sweet children to the realm of dreams. Her childhood flashed before her, of times playing come-into-my-castle with Robb, and hide-the-treasure with Arya sometime back when there was no such thing as sisterly feuds. Of tittering with Jeyne and Beth about the latest lordling trying to woo her. Rickon and Bran, mischievous little bandits they were, trying to get the jump on her or Jeyne, Father and Mother watching from the battlements with content smiles. 

It brought tears to her eyes.  

“Milady, everythin’ fine?” Ashlyn asked her in askance, a little worried by her tears trailing down her cheeks.  

“Fine, Ash…it’s nothing to be worried about, just happy to finally be free of that prison.” Her friend nodded amicably, her smile pliant. Her grass-green eyes softened when she took a tender grasp of Sansa’s hand and squeezed. Sansa pressed back and returned the smile, grateful to have a friend like Ashlyn Storm. A little bit of guilt seeped into her bones for ever doubting her or her intentions. Never would she do so again. 

“Pardon, miladies…?” A new voice joined them, gruff and while discernibly southron, it was not the usual honeyed accent Sansa was wont to hear whenever southron lords started waggling their tongues. Sansa erected her walls in an instant as an older man with brown eyes and an ordinary face weathered by the elements approached them, clad in a cloak as equally smoky as theirs. His beard and thinning brown hair were peppered with grey and only when he gave a little wave to her and Ashlyn did Sansa notice the missing first joints of the fingers of his left hand.  

He sensed Sansa’s caution, and when he smiled to try and lift the tension his presence brought, she was reminded of another older man, someone far more familiar, whose very presence beckoned for her, his grey eyes forever carved in kindness and his long face etched in an affectionate smile whenever he found her in one of the halls of Winterfell. Father’s smile. Sansa felt a little stab to her heart at the remembrance. 

“Sweet Ashlyn, it’s good to see you healthy and strong again.” He murmured endearingly, and to Sansa’s surprise, Ash jumped into the arms of this stranger readily, flinging her arms around his neck like a daughter would to her father, burying herself into his embrace. 

“Oh, Ser Davos, I do hope the winds have been kind to you…I’ve missed you so…” She disentangled herself, still holding his arms and beaming at Ser Davos, a genuine smile that reached the eyes, something she did rarely. “How’re the seven little sers? Not too much of a hassle on dear Marya?” He let out a chuckle, removing himself from Ash’s embrace and crossing his arms behind his back. 

“They’re fine, sweetling. Always keep askin’ about you and when you’re comin’ to our cottage again. Have to sometimes send ‘em on a little hunt for hares and ferrets to keep ‘em busy.” Ser Davos mused with a small smile. Although the conversation was light-hearted, a heavy tone still underlined it, and Ashlyn smiled wanly.  

“There’s nothin’ I love more than to hold your sweet boys and feed ‘em apples and berries, or tell ‘em stories of yore to make them keel over with laughter, ser.”  

“I know you do, sweet girl, I know you do…” Ash seemed to remember her then as she twirled on her naked feet, and gestured for Sansa to come nearer. 

“Ser Davos, this is Princess Sansa of Winterfell, the bride trying to jilt her cunt of a betrothed.” Davos let out a bout of laughter straight from his belly, delighted by her choice of words. The crassness of Ashlyn’s barb was a new experience for Sansa, who had never heard the usually soft-spoken girl curse, always lowering her head demurely whenever highborn lords and ladies passed by. She was unmoved though, and remembering her manners, Sansa dipped in a swan-like curtsy. 

“Good ser, an honour to make your acquaintance.”  

“Oh child, there’s no need to curtsy before an old seadog such as myself.” He brought his eyes to Ashlyn. “You didn’t jest when you spoke to me about a smuggling job. We’re tryin’ to whisk away a true princess here.” Davos dipped his eyes downwards and saw their delicate feet bare on the rough stone, his brows almost disappearing into his mousy locks seeing their wriggling toes. “No time to put on some boots even?” 

The bag slung over Sansa’s shoulders was lowered to the ground and she started searching for them. A pair of boots, beaten-worn and looking a little too large for her feet, were placed on the wet floor and Sansa slipped her feet into them with a little effort. As she suspected, they did not cling to her skin and shape, leaving a lot of room to wiggle her feet around. No matter, she had to make do with what she had, and over-sized boots were a hundred times better than continually walking on her already scraped and cold soles.  

She handed over the spare pair to Ashlyn who took to wearing them with less difficulty, and the two girls stood ready in front of Ser Davos who beckoned them with an arm towards the anchored ship. 

Its size was small and it looked nimble with only a single sail-mast jutting up. Sansa reckoned that was an advantage to have here, as the rocks of Shipbreaker Bay were like the jagged teeth of a sea-monster, and they a trio of succulent fish. The smaller they were, the easier mayhaps it was to sail through these treacherous rocks. 

“By the Seven, hopefully we can reach Dragonstone within a moon’s turn. The chills of winter are already creeping up the lands. I dread the seas could freeze before we reach the safe confines of the Manderly holdings.” Sansa said, the first to board the ship. 

Ser Davos halted in his steps as they crossed the gangplank, standing stock still in the middle, and Ashlyn was about to pull in the ropes when she spotted Davos’ conflicted expression. 

“Ser Davos? Is everythin’ alright?” Ashlyn wondered.  

“Miladies, surely you must have noticed the storm…?”  

“Yes, what of it? Is it too dangerous to sail through?”  

Davos demurred, unsure what to say, but Ashlyn encouraged him with a nod. “As experienced as I may be, miladies, I do fear the storm is too strong to defy. Its gusts are coming north of the Narrow Sea, and are as cold as winter’s bite. My little ship cannot hope to sail against such tides.” Sansa stopped at those words. 

“So we cannot travel towards Dragonstone?”  

Davos shook his head, hands bringing in the gangplank and nodding to his men to begin their embarkment. A small crew was marching around deck, unknotting ropes and freeing sails while oars were carried below. Sansa began to feel a little bit of dread.  

“What about Pentos? Can we hope to reach it and wait out the coming storm?” She questioned, clutching her cloak tighter to borrow some of its warmth, but the wind flooding down into the cavern proved too cutting. Yet again, she was answered with a shake of Davos’s head, and more dread built in Sansa’s heart. 

“The storm has passed Driftmark and Blackwater Bay. The Velaryons have ordered all ships to be anchored and closed the port. Sailing north would be a death sentence, my princess.” What was she to do now? Would the storm prove to be their escape’s undoing? 

“What would you suggest, Ser Davos? Is there a way for us to escape the Stormlands?”  

He clicked his tongue, the wheels inside his head turning. Sansa could almost hear Ser Davos Seaworth think, that was how desperately he sought a solution. 

“We could sail further south…” He murmured more to himself than her, pacing around with crossed arms over the wooden deck, his countenance set in fretful concern. “Weeping Town might be a possibility… then again it’s not exactly escaping the Stormlands, and the king’s men wouldn’t need to ride very far if they catch our scent. The princess is known far and wide across these lands after all… perhaps the Lord Selwyn of Evenfall may be amicable, always held a distaste towards those smug Lannisters… and the island is quite remote… but it has no safe harbour for the _Black Betha_ to dock… the storms would rip it apart…” 

For a shameful second, Sansa admitted that she would not mind sailing through the raging storm, even if it meant endangering Ser Davos, Ashlyn and all the other men running the _Black Betha_ , as long as she could escape the vile clutches of her betrothed. Swallowing down the lump in her throat, Sansa pushed aside her desperate thoughts and tried to focus on the issue at hand. She placed her hand against the wooden railing of the ship to support her weight, her legs feeling like unbearable boulders all of a sudden.  

Going north was no option, that much she deduced, and east towards Pentos was also not possible, for the storm was approaching fast from the ends of the Narrow Sea to thunderously weep and shriek along the coast of Westeros. That left only south. Ser Davos had already considered Weeping Town and the Isle of Tarth, and promptly dismissed them both. If they went further south, they would wash ashore in Dornish lands, and if Sansa was discovered by lords leal to House Martell, the possibility of getting dragged by the roots of her hair to Sunspear left Sansa with budding fear. At best, she would be treated as a hostage and bargaining chip. At worst…Sansa did not want to think about the alternative. 

It was no secret the Dornish and the Stormlanders wanted each other’s head on a spike. The bad blood between the Durrandons and Martells was deepened when Ser Gregor Clegane, Joffrey’s sworn sword, killed the Ruling Prince’s uncle, Prince Lewyn Martell, during a skirmish between that monstrous hulk of a man and the Dornish prince.  

Perfunctorily, Sansa considered escaping to the Reach, to the lands of gallantry and knighthood, ruled by House Gardener, but she shot down that thought the moment she weighted the consideration. Where did her belief in fair princes, heroic knights and sweet songs get her? It brought her south right into the arms of Joffrey Durrandon and his cronies Meryn Trant, Boros Blount and Clayton Suggs. No, the Reach was another kingdom of uncharted waters, surely full of ambitious folk eager to further their own interests. A hostage she would eventually end up as either way, whether in Dorne, in the Reach, or anywhere she fled. Nobody would protect her out of the kindness of their heart.  

No, she needed assurance. She needed a place she could trust. A safe-haven where Sansa could rest and recover in peace until she could return home. Somewhere… Sansa could place her head and close her eyes for just a spare moment, free of the fear of men with hidden agendas and lofty ambitions breathing down her neck. Where family was waiting for her. Then, the thought struck her. East, family, Pentos, how did they all connect? 

“New Valyria…” She breathed out. The realization hit her like a mass of bricks. She drew Ashlyn’s and Ser Davos’s attention, both a little taken aback. They looked nonplussed, the mention of the imperial city not expected.  

She fixed her eyes on the smuggler, clasped his hands in her own in a grip tighter than she intended and looked imploringly. “Ser Davos, please take us to the Holy Valyrian Empire. I know it’s far greater a voyage than you might have planned and something too great to ask, but please ser, I plead with you, don’t deny me this request.” 

“You…wish for us to make the travel to the Dragon Empire? Dear child, I’m not so certain…pirates have taken up residence in the Stepstones again, and the Summer Islanders are plenty in the Summer Sea, eager to fall down upon a small barge like this one. If the sea won’t claim us, surely the sword will.” Ser Davos said with a protesting tone. The fight to hold at bay desperation was an uphill battle, and Sansa’s choked up a little hearing Ser Davos vacillated so.  

“Please, good ser, staying here in the Stormlands for another day, I cannot bear. Only the gods know what sort of despicable things Joffrey would do to me should he realize I fled the castle. By now, guards must have surely noticed my empty bedchamber. Please, ser, you’re my only salvation.” Ser Davos was ready to argue again, his parted lips a tell-tale sign. Before it could come to that, Ashlyn placed her hand on top of Sansa’s, joining her friend and trying to stem her rapidly increasing hysteria. 

“No need for fear now, princess, good Ser Davos will help us cross the Stones and Seas.” Her bright green eyes glistened as Ashlyn turned to meet Ser Davos. “Her aunty be the Dragon Empress, Ser Davos. She’ll hand over a great boon for the safety of her pretty little niece. I’d reckon that your little sers and bonny wife could eat aurochs and drink fine wines for moonturns with a reward such as that under your belt. When you make the journey back, of course.” 

“ _If_ I make the journey back, that is…” Davos corrected with a deep sigh, scratching his bearded face with a grubby hand. Some of his crew lingered to listen to their captain. He was having an internal conflict, and Sansa was hard-pressed in trying to determine where he leant “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but very well then, we’ll make the trek. Gods be good if it’s Salla we’ll be crossing on the waters… Any other pirate, and I’ll fear for you and the princess. Pretty girls don’t do well when captured by such men…or women even…”  

The ropes tied to the little anchor were pulled in, the oars began to row and the sails wavered open when one of the sailors cut loose a knot too obstinate to untie. The _Black Betha_ crawled sluggishly out of the bay, the shallows disappearing as they crept across the waters, until the biting wind blew harder over the crowns of their heads, whipping Sansa’s fiery locks around like tendrils of flames escaping the hearth. She pulled her cowl over her head and allowed Ser Davos to guide her across the deck, sea spray geysering up over the wooden rims of the _Black Betha’s_ railings. She stopped for a blink and dared a tentative look towards the north just in time to witness a bright crackle of lightning flash before her Tully blue eyes. The smoky clouds darkening the sky rumbled not too long after, a growl of nature heralding something naturally frightening and thunderous. A shiver ran down Sansa’s spine as she heard it.  

It looked as though the gods themselves were preparing for war.  

“Right this way, princess, the cabin beneath deck is better suited against the rain and storm. While sadly not as comfortable as the royal chambers of Storm’s End, I think you’ll find them quite to your liking anyway.” Sansa nodded. She turned a reluctant smile to Ser Davos’ good-natured humour and allowed herself to be guided towards the ladder descending downwards.  

With a final look behind her, she drank in how the formidable fortress of Storm’s End began to shrink away from the periphery of her sight, tucked behind one, then two, and then countless other jagged rocks, a black boulder eaten by rocky teeth. Joffrey was there somewhere, her former betrothed snoring away the night beneath the comfy blankets of his royal featherbed, and blissfully unaware of the gyrations around him, as usual. She expected from him no more, but Sansa had to be honest, she had expected a little more from the ostensibly shrewd Queen Cersei. She had allowed, right beneath her nose, for her son’s betrothed to escape their clutches. What did that say about her shrewd mind?   

Sansa left for dead a future in the cradle of that castle, a future that once made her heart sing. Now, Sansa was more than relieved to shed it, like dirty clothes off her back. Without a shred of remorse, her countenance bowed and her feet trudged down the stairs to gain shelter from the coming storm. 

Sansa never looked back towards that castle again. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dragons muse in their liar, and the lions make their move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We see the plot move forward. As I promised, this chapter is dedicated to Rhae, Dany, and the one I did not mention, Tyrion, which gives your more perspective in Westeros. 
> 
> The next chapter, I will post a lot later, since it's essentially the stepping stone that sets a lot in motion. 
> 
>  
> 
> Btw, the end notes of Chapter 1 seem to pop up here as well. Would someone be kind enough to point out how that is removed?

**The War of Restoration**

**Aegon the Restorer swept across the lands of Essos like a storm of fire, with the roars of his dragons leading the charge. Some of the Essosi greeted the Targaryen emperor with open arms, eager to have away the discord and confusion left behind by the Doom. Others, were not so welcoming of the Restorer. It mattered little in the end, the Nine Cities eventually bowed before Emperor Aegon, whether through peaceful surrender, or violent conquest.**

**The Free City that Aegon had set his eyes on first was Pentos, but the Pentoshi were quick to bend the knee and open their gates to the new self-proclaimed sovereign of Valyria’s daughters. The charred grounds of the Disputed Lands were still freshly imprinted upon their eyes, and to avoid such catastrophe, the magisters reckoned it was better to live under Valyrian rule again rather than being lord and master of the ashes.**

**A missive arrived that very same day. It contained the oath of allegiance from distant Lorath, whose existence was all but forgotten by the Targaryen. Still, an oath of fealty was an oath of fealty, and Aegon was no lackwit to decline one when it was offered.**

**Tyrosh, Myr and Lys followed soon after. At first, The Three Daughters tried to defy Aegon in his restoration. They got a taste of freedom after all and felt ill at ease in parting with it. So, a fleet of six hundred dromonds was raised from the depths of the sea to make their way to Dragonstone and compel Aegon to step away from his ambition. A mighty fleet it was, drifting proudly with their iridescent sails, determined to kill Aegon’s Restoration will it was in its infancy. It came nowhere near to that end.**

**As the combined fleet of The Three Daughters navigated through the narrow lanes of the Stepstones, Aegon unleashed all three dragons Balerion, Meraxes and Vhagar upon the struggling galleys. The isles of the Stepstones were treacherous to sail through, and Aegon mercilessly took advantage of their huddling. He burned down three hundred ships to cinders, and another hundred he reduced to mere burning cogs. The prince admiral of the fleet was a son of the Tyroshi archon, and married to the daughter of a powerful oligarch of Myr. He, alongside many nobles of The Three Daughters burned to their gruesome deaths in a flood of flames. The horrors of this brutally effective way of warfare made Tyrosh and Myr the first to kneel, and Lys followed not too long after. The destruction across the lanes of the Stepstones was named the Sea of Fire, for Aegon had turned the blue waters of the isles into a blazing inferno. For three days did the ships crackle with flames.**

**With Pentos, Lorath, Lys, Tyrosh and Myr subverted, Aegon the Restorer had five of the eight former Valyrian colonies within his hold. It was merely the beginning.**

**Soon, the gates of Norvos, Qohor and Volantis were stormed as well. The Three Daughters and Pentos brought together a great army of thirty thousand soldiers on its legs. Ten marched to lay siege on Volantis, ten marched to the City of Sorcerers and ten marched towards Great Norvos, all three led by a dragonrider.**

**The Sorcerers of Qohor, like Pentos, were amicable and eager to gain protection under Aegon from the goldthirsty khals of the Great Grass Sea. They welcomed Empress Rhaenys and Aegon’s closest friend Orys Baratheon as saviours.**

**Norvos was less pliant, as Aegon had expected. The Bearded Priests were not open to re-subjugation to the Valyrian principles. Their stubborn religion arrogantly spurned syncretism. But it was for this reason Aegon had send Visenya, for Visenya was a sterner dragonrider than either her sister or himself, and reminded the Norvoshi that it was the Valyrians that allowed them to practice their esoteric religion, and that dragonfire could just as easily end it. They surrendered the city after three days of contemplation.**

**Aegon’s legion made the trek to Volantis, the First Daughter of the Freehold. Years prior, it was he who broke the back of the Volantenese during its gambit to succeed the Freehold. The city never truly recovered from the Century of Blood, and when Aegon Targaryen halted before the Black Walls of Old Volantis, he found a city too feeble to man its defences and fight for its independence. Volantis surrendered as willingly as the other cities did before them.**

**And so, the eight colonies of Valyria were once again brought under the rod of the dragonlords.**

**But Essos had not eight cities.**

**It had nine.**

* * *

**~Nowadays, it was hard to make the separation between her empathetic father who she loved, and the pragmatic Emperor who she served. Sometimes, there was no point in trying to make the distinction. Father slipped into his clothes as sovereign like it was a second skin. Done within a snap of his fingers. Father made decisions for the family without a sliver of doubt in mind and moved its members like pieces across the board in a game of cyvasse.**

**It was a game of power for Father. A means to further the family’s consolidation. There was nothing wrong with it, in essence, only, it was ruthlessly prosaic. Father’s duty was the security of his legacy. The hearts of his loved ones were of no concern in such a matter. Yet, Rhaenys did not begrudge Father. Father had Uncle Aemon to thank for that. He always acted as his unfailing advocate with his words of reasoning.~**

* * *

**NEW VALYRIA**

**DAENERYS I**

The steam around clung to every tile of the chamber, sizzling and dancing in thick misty clouds, warm and heady to the nostrils and wetting the slick works of stone with a thin sheet of evaporation. The sweet scent of lavender and rose petals enriched the chambers, battling a fierce war for dominance, yet were so perfect in their blend. The water poured out of a fount in the shape of a coiling dragon with its jaws wide open, spewing water instead of fire, soothingly rich and utter bliss for the weary muscles. To Daenerys, they felt like the pecks of a dedicated lover kissing away the fatigue with a mere touch of a lip. Daenerys stretched one of her legs out of the water and marvelled through narrowed white lashes the rivulets of water cascading down her skin.  

A content sigh escaped her lips as she lay in the waters of the bathhouse privy to only the imperial family. A cavernous chamber with a grand marble floor splotched grey and velvet in colour, the stones smooth and a little tepid underneath her feet, not as lovingly warm as the water coursing through the veins of the bath chambers around. Bowls of exotic fruits were placed around alongside glass decanters of wine, from the sugary indulgences of Lys to the spicy drinks of Myr. Vials and bars of soap were placed on a shelf nearby, their sweet-scented contents a delight for the nostrils. There were oils and creams as well, to whiten the skin to the point of milk or feed the hair and curl it glossy and full of life.   

A servant girl hailing from Lys, scantily clad in her smallclothes as her silvery locks fell down her scapulae, kept pouring sweet-smelling oils into the waters as per Daenerys’ instructions, blurring it into a light muddy stain and clutching to the flesh Daenerys was eager to whiten again into a fine shade of porcelain. She grabbed a bar of soap lying in a basket next to her and rubbed it firmly between her palms, a creamy paste clinging to her hands.  

She stood up from the waters and began massaging her unblemished skin, starting with her torso and stomach, then her sides, beneath the swells of her breasts then, over her nipples and finally cupping both her breasts and rubbing them clean of any speck she imagined to be there. When she was pleased, Daenerys continued her path and soaped in the hollow of her neck, around the length of her throat and nape, before she knelt again when the slick paste no longer smoothened her palms and took the soap in hand again to rinse and repeat, now taking care of her arms and legs, thighs and arse, running them all down with the scent of lavender. 

“Serona, come closer and wash my back.” Daenerys sighed. The young Lyseni girl obeyed, compelled to please her mistress, taking the soap from Daenerys’ hand. Her soft palms felt like doughy clouds, or feather pillows snatched from the hands of the finest seamstresses, as they stroked across her spine and between her shoulders in gentle care. Daenerys could not help the little moans that slipped from her lips. “That’s a good servant…add a little more pressure, if you will.”  

Serona’s hands pressed firmer with each caress, and the hum of approval purred in Daenerys’ throat, her body beginning to feel boneless and wholly at ease under her servant’s ministrations.  

After a particular good rub, she sighed gratifyingly, almost letting out a moan of pleasure, and gestured for the servant girl to stop by raising a graceful finger. What Daenerys loved especially about Serona was her capability to obey without a second’s difference between the command and Serona’s obedience. She was absolutely subject to the whims of her masters.  

Daenerys turned around in the waters, her hands finding their way towards the Lyseni’s face and tracing little circles across her dimpled cheeks. “Come here, Serona, let me reward you for your service.”  

The feeling of a woman’s lips was heavenly for Daenerys. Soft, succulent and delicious they were, a sweet sin to run her tongue along the seams and lick or bite them for an eternity. Girls like Serona were an indulgence to Daenerys, a source of sweet carnal pleasure few could awake inside her. Malleable under her touch and oh so delicious. She kissed the younger girl with an unsated hunger, all tongue and teeth, drinking in greedily the taste of Lys without a single drop of shame. It elicited from her hidden fantasies of different kisses, one’s far rougher but arousing in the same way. Of dark brown ringlets in place of snowy locks falling down the sides of the face she was holding. Purple storms instead of indigo gems to gaze into. Throaty growls in place of tingling mewls, vigorous virility instead of delicate femininity. 

The sharp jolts of pleasure stirred a fire inside her stomach and a bolt of lightning towards her loins at the dream, with each pleasurable flick of their lips a moan of ecstasy wiggling through her mouth.  

But Daenerys was not one to overindulge. She was a woman with the reins over her urges, and thus, she decided that her little reward had been going on long enough, before the flicker could turn into a sea of wildfire. She parted from the flustered girl with a plop of their lips, Serona’s indigo eyes dimming a little darker than normal, still fogged with a heavy cloud of lust while Serona’s small but pert teats heaved with each breath she took. Daenerys swallowed down the last remnants of Serona’s taste with a smack of her lips and then tugged them in a saccharine smile, her pearly white teeth glinting in the lights of the room. 

“Fetch me some dry cloths and a dress, my dear, preferably something fit, elegant but comfortable. My beloved brother is to see me in a short while alongside the rest of the family. He has an announcement to share.” Daenerys gave a light peck before she ushered her servant away. With a timid nod, Serona’s lovely form sauntered off, her face flush and her cheeks rosy still. 

Not long after, Serona returned to her, a brush in hand, dry cloths and a fine silken dress draped over each arm. Daenerys told the servant girl to assist her in drying herself, and both turned to work and dab the wetness off her curvaceous body with the dry cloths. Then, they set off drying her hair and brushing it until it was a cascading fall of silvery water. Serona twisted her locks in elegant plaits around the crown of her head, graceful and artistic in her work, not a single lock out of place.  

When done, Daenerys slipped a pair of woollen hose over her legs before Serona helped the princess slide into the dress. It was made of fine black Myrish lace as thin as paper, with scarlet embroideries of dragons interweaved with flames alongside the bodice and the billowy sleeves. The back of the dress was kept bare as well as the shoulders, granting the wind purchase to glide across. The long skirt had a cut in the middle allowing it to part and giving a little more freedom for walking. 

When all tidied up and swathed primly in the hues of her dynasty, Daenerys left the imperial bath chambers and roamed the numerously pillared halls of the Scarlet Palace, two Blackguards quick to make to her side. She turned her violet eyes across the stone railings, gazing between the pillars and letting herself be swept away by the setting sun, its colours gold and orange as it nestled itself above the horizon of Dagger Lake.  

Beyond the seams of the horizon roamed a part of her beating heart. Fighting, bleeding, waging wars and gaining glories for the Empire. His presence was a phantom roaming the empty halls of her heart, his voice a low melody of bygone memories full of laughter and contentment. Wistfully, Daenerys sighed, a deep longing stirring in her ribcage, a maelstrom of emotions raging on as every blink of her eyelids brought her the visage of dark curls and kind tyrian eyes.  

 _“Your Highness, as always, it’s a delight to see you again. Your beauty puts a smile on many a face. I daresay your fair features grow ever more beautiful with each passing day.”_ Behind one of the pillars emerged a spider from his gossamer.  

Varys, the Imperial Spymaster.  

His arms were folded and tucked into his sleeves, his smile like a draw on the canvas of an exceptional painter. The voice of Varys was a velvety lilt of unspoken truths and practiced pleasantries. The effeminate smells around his wide girth would put even the priciest pillow houses of Lys to shame. His High Valyrian was as eloquent as his flatteries. Though, flawless as he was with courtesies, Daenerys was warned many times not to trust Varys with too much. He knew all and everything, or so some claimed, a raider of knowledge, digging up information out of every crevasse he could find. And knowledge was a path to power, all knew that.  

 _“Dear Varys, indeed, it’s lovely to see you too. Please lead the way, I’m sure we can twitter about the latest developments of the Empire while we walk.”_ Daenerys smiled back in greeting at his bow and the both of them sauntered alongside each other towards their destination. _“It has slipped my attention, but surely a man such as yourself must’ve picked up on the whispers concerning this…meeting of my brother’s inner circle. High Commander Arthur was quite stiff about it and refused to share any words. Neither did my good-sister Lyanna and dear Uncle Aemon. I do so loathe to be kept_ _in the dark if the matter is grave. What is it that requires the attention of the whole imperial family, may I ask?”_  

The coming of dusk bathed the halls of the Scarlet Palace in a dimly gilded light, shining on the brightly painted floor and marble statues of long past Targaryen emperors. The light reflected off Daenerys’ face, her annoyance at the lack of knowing written across.  

Varys merely offered that same cheek-rounding smile and dipped his head. _“Oh my dear princess, nothing to fret about. Their Imperial Graces were tight-lipped about the ordeal, that is true, but it concerns matters not worthy of your worry. I would say, it’s quite the opposite. The emperor is eager to share some good news for a change, or so I have heard.”_  

Daenerys furrowed her finely trimmed eyebrows in thought as they kept walking. Whatever this news might entail, it certainly caught her brother’s attention. With it, Daenerys found her interest to be ensnared as well. 

 _“Let us hear then from the emperor himself what this gathering entails. What other news can you share, Lord Varys? Have your birds sung a pretty song or did the winds bear dark words instead?”_ Daenerys said conversationally, striding on through the imperial quarters, right past the Empress’ Ballroom and making their way through the hall of the War Council Chambers.  

 _“There have been some rumours, yes. Whispers from the east, telling the tales of a charismatic khal and murmurs about the Slaver Cities moving in the shadows.”_ Varys rested his hand on her bare shoulder. _“I fear something is stirring, my princess. War seems to crawl on the horizon, and we may see the harpies and horselords plan an assault.”_  

 _“Even after my dear nephew’s victories over the Dothraki?”_ Daenerys could not help the proud smile forming on her lips. _“Beloved Jon has campaigned against the horselords for five years, and lost not a single battle. The Dothraki have begun to fear him as much as the waters which their horses refuse to drink.”_  

 _“Yes, Prince Jon has proven to be quite the adversary for the proud horselords. Their fear is grounded. Nonetheless, despite his achievements, the prince knows the Dothraki to be a people of stubborn resilience. They breed like rabbits. Take one of their heads, and three seem to sprout from the ground to replace it. The Dothraki have lost much, but they will return, as they always do, with more bloodlust than before.”_   

 _“What of Slaver’s Bay? What schemes are the slave masters drawing?”_ Daenerys continued. Varys returned with a slight grimace. His disdain for slavery was quite known, and even though the Empire did not aggregate chained flesh for the markets to sell in overly massive quantities like the Slaver Cities, it was still a practice throughout New Valyria.  

 _“I cannot say for certain, only play on what is on my mind, sadly. Some of my little birds sing of an agreement between the Slaver Cities and New Ghis to unite and forge a new Ghiscari Empire to counter ours, a very troubling prospect indeed. Others speak of a different arrangement, some sort of marriage between the horse and the harpy so to say.”_ Varys replied. Daenerys halted in her movement. These were troubling prospects indeed. 

 _“A marriage? Between the Dothraki and the slave masters? Has their resentment towards us waxed to such heights?”_  

The lips of the Imperial Spymaster curled up. _“Well, we cannot blame them, now can we? It is as much resentment as it is fear. Prince Jon has proven to our enemies outside Aegon’s Wall that the dragon still_ _has fangs. The slave masters have grown anxious over his victories. Who’s to say, perhaps the prince plans to invade the Slaver Cities and subjugate them to imperial rule as well one day? Perhaps even step in Daeron’s shoes and become the Young Dragon’s second coming? Well, a more austere exemplar of course.”_  

Their trek through the Scarlet Palace came to an end as the great ornamented ironwood doors of the Emperor’s Great Chamber came into view, warded by two members of the Blackguard.  

Their ominous black armour was all-encompassing. From head to toe dark-tinted plate of the finest steel Qohor could provide shrouded their bodies while the flowing black mantle spilling down their backs was made by the assiduous hands of Myrish knitters. In their hands, they had wooden shafts wrapped in their palms, straight as lances with a pole-axe. The Targaryen three-headed dragon was embellished on their billowing black capes, their movement flapping like liquid shadows when tugged by the wind’s fingers, as though the dragon had taken flight.  

Since her girlhood, the Blackguard were a fascination for Daenerys, and from what she remembered from her dear niece and nephews, also for them. What sort of story laid behind their visors they would always ask the other? Was the man behind the helmet an abomination, burned or marred and too ashamed to reveal himself? Or a simple man at his wit’s end, desperate enough to escape whatever demons haunted him and take the black as redemption? 

 _“A Blackguard’s vow is a solemn and grim promise, isn’t it, Varys? To swear an oath of silence and unconditional loyalty to the emperor is a task not many can uphold. They are words few in the world could manage to speak with genuine conviction.”_ Daenerys planted a palm on the cold steel of one of their breastplates, eyes glazed over in wonder.  

 _“It speaks of the purest dedication to duty and honour.”_ Varys agreed.  

 _“Yes. Yes, it does. Quite romantic, if I may add to it.”_  

The Blackguards pushed the doors open wordlessly, allowing for both the emperor’s sister and the Imperial Spymaster to tread forth and enter.  

Varys waddled off and greeted dear granduncle Aemon where he was seated in his cushiony chair, an open book read through braille placed idly on his lap. The thin curtains leading to the balcony shaded the forms of three figures huddling together. Daenerys had no doubt her brother Rhaegar, his wife Lyanna and his closest friend Arthur Dayne were having a discussion privy only to them.  

Her stunningly beautiful niece, the dark-haired Princess Rhaenys was lying on a spacious feather cushion, spooning cobbles of pomegranate from a bowl into her mouth, while Balerion, her black cat who always prowled around the imperial quarters lay sprawled next to his mistress for a change, enjoying a good rub of his fur-coated belly. She wore quite a flimsy silver dress, barely reaching the caps of her knees and leaving her dainty shoulders and arms bare as well as her slender legs. The weather of the Empire warranted sometimes for such clothes, Daenerys mused. She already made many a head turn in her wake. The dress would make their lingering eyes turn to lasting leers. The skin of her curvaceous legs was a tad bit darker now, like the rest of her flesh. They looked more a shade of bronze than olive, courtesy of the sunbaths she enjoyed during her stay with her family in Dorne. 

She wore a pair of goldwork bracelets around her wrists decorated with emeralds, a gift from Daenerys on Rhaenys’ eighteenth nameday. Around her svelte throat was the necklace made of silver-gold she always wore, a little locket hanging from it. Inside was a drawing of dear Elia. A gift from Aegon. 

Rhaenys had recently returned from her visit to Sunspear, and she had relished her time with her Dornish relatives profoundly, or so she had said. Whatever manner of pleasantries she enjoyed back in Dorne, Daenerys was sure it involved a romp or two with some of her more hot-blooded cousins. The Dornish were…open-minded in their trysts, much as she was, and enjoyed the fruits of life with a passion. Life was their most ardent paramour, and they loved it fiercely. One of these days, Daenerys wished to make the journey too and taste the sweetness of Queen Nymeria’s descendants herself.  

When her beloved niece had taken note of her, she rose from her perch, swept her mane of onyx hair over a shoulder, and with a coquettish smile playing on her lips gracefully sashayed towards her, Balerion leaping away with a mewl of protest. 

 _“Beloved Dany, I haven’t laid my eyes upon your fair face since my return from Sunspear. Do give your old niece some love.”_ Rhae simpered. Love, Daenerys gave with little protest in the form of a little peck on the lips and a tight embrace. 

 _“I do hope you missed me during your stay in Sunspear, Rhae. With Jon off to conquer the world and you gone for six moonturns, the imperial court had grown quite cold. Your sunny smiles and snarky comments were very much absent.”_ Daenerys teased. Rhae’s laugh was mellifluous, a sweet melody to the ears. 

 _“I’m sure the court has missed me. Egg did not prove to be much entertainment, I presume…?”_  

At the mention of Aegon’s name, Daenerys’ rolled her eyes. _“Dear Egg is on a different conquest all together. He’s been entertaining, alright.”_  

Her other nephew was a man too much invested in revering his lusts sometimes, and thus, paying attention to family eluded him much too often.  

While Daenerys did not object the need of physical liberation now and then, at least she knew not to twiddle around with the hearts of those she loved for a night. Daenerys made it clear to those who she engaged with in intimate throes that fucking, at the end of the night, was just fucking. There was no use letting it delve into deeper waters.  

Aegon was not so considerate, or rather, did not have the luxury to part with understanding partners. Offtimes, his escapades involved young girls eager to have the eyes of the beautiful Prince of Dragonstone on them. Aegon did not purposely break the hearts of naïve maidens; he was just a man, simple as that, a beautiful man with a whole lot of carnal desire inside him. It was not his fault that women were obstinate. Hard it is to see the truth if one does not want to see it. Daenerys knew, for she was once victim to Aegon’s blinding radiance, back when girly idealism still held sway over her mindset. She forgave him, but it was a lesson well learned. Aegon was a man whose heart could not be filled with the love of only one woman. So, she took a leaf out of his page and decided to see what was what in the world of New Valyria. She had not regretted it ever since. 

Rhaenys’ chuckled at her response, her eyes drifting around, trying to spot her brother, whose absence was soon apparent when no sign of his existence could be found. She was aware of her brother’s infamy, though never felt compelled to have him set straight. Rhaenys, the tragic doting sister, could not find fault in him enjoying life a bit too excessively, and with Rhaegar already occupied with the matters of the Empire, and Jon fighting the Dothraki, there were few people daring enough to remind the prince of duty. Jon, though younger than Egg by a few moonturns, never swallowed his elder brother’s braggadocio and never shied away from butting heads with him over it when they grew somewhat equal in strength. A healthy rivalry Rhaegar called it.  

Rhaenys was about to say something, no doubt in defence of Aegon, but the sound of rustling clothes and a set of armour entering the great chamber made her swallow her words.  

Emperor Rhaegar was fair, tall and puissant in his dark and sanguine garments, his obsidian crown set with intensely bright rubies keeping his bright locks from his eyes. He entered stoic-faced with his comely wife Lyanna on his arm, her magnificent gown a deep tyrian colour. Like her dear Jon’s eyes. Rhaegar’s great billowy mantle was a sea of red, clasped with a golden buckle cast in the shape of the imperial seal of the three-headed dragon. Around Lyanna’s pale neck was a black-tinted brocaded scarf, going around her shoulders and the length of it going into the valley of her armpits. Lyanna’s hickory ringlets, stormy eyes and the Valyrian steel crown inserted with diamonds resting atop her head were a sharp but complementing contrast to her husband’s bright and dark looks.  

Lyanna and Rhaegar were a flawless couple in Daenerys’ opinion. Same of height, beautiful in face and endowment, wits of equal amount, but so vastly different in appearance and traits. Rhaegar’s appearance was graceful, silent and tempered, beautiful some ladies sighed breathlessly, a trait not quite oft associated with men. Rhaegar was a fluent creature compared to his wife, whose beauty was better described as fierce, wild, and confident. Untamed was a good word. She was the dark night to his pale moon. The fiery ice to his cool fire.  

Yet, a happily wed couple, they were not. 

Not anymore at least.  

Through the seasons, though still very much loyal to each other, Rhaegar and his lovely consort had grown distant. Disagreements, bitterness towards Rhaegar and his ever-lasting duty, and of most import, Jon’s departure had left their nuptials indented. Some even dared to tattle, mayhaps no more inflamed by love. Mutual devotion to their family was what held the son of Old Valyria and the daughter of the First Men together.  

It was disheartening to see, for Daenerys knew how close her brother’s second wife was to his heart. She was the mother of Rhaegar’s last child. Lyanna was the woman that pulled him out of his despairs once upon a time, when his heart still mourned the loss of his beloved wife. His rock, his pillar to lean on when the Empire became too heavy. Dear Elia was still painfully missed by her brother, but holding Rhaegars’s heart alone, she did no longer. Daenerys could not fault Rhaegar for loving his second son nor his second wife so much, for both Lyanna and Jon were so dangerously easy to love. 

Lyanna was as pig-headed as she was loving however, and sometimes more her husband’s most bitter adversary than his trusted companion. Her strong, Northern convictions of honour and honesty were in perpetual clash with the plots and guiles orchestrated by some in the Empire. Her brother Rhaegar was not exempt of her distaste. His court intrigues sometimes made her bristle the most. After nineteen years, Lyanna still found no place for herself in the nest of vipers called New Valyria’s imperial court. And if it was up to her adamant beliefs, she would never find it. 

Daenerys hoped that with Jon’s return, a sense of rekindling could occur in the hearts of her beloved brother and good-sister. And perhaps the rest of the family. 

 _“Your brother is absent, Rhaenys.”_ Rhaegar lilted sharply, his voice doing nothing to conceal his disapproval from Rhae, who flinched slightly at her father’s tone. When cross, Rhaegar’s usually harmonious voice was as sharp as the dagger of an assassin, swift and without mercy. Daenerys felt for her lovely niece, and inwardly wished to voice her disapproval of Rhaegar’s harsh demeanour towards Rhaenys, but she could not speak out of turn against the emperor himself, even if he was her own brother. “ _He must be in the arms of some woman. Have him fetched this instant, I will not suffer the insolence. He may avoid matters of import regularly, but on this, I will not have him amiss.”_  

Ser Arthur was the one to reply. _“Of course, Rhaegar. Your will be done swiftly.”_ His armoured hand rose and gesticulated for the Blackguards. _“Fetch Prince Aegon! Scour the palace for him, at once!”_  

The guards tramped out stiffly, leaving the imperial family, High Commander Arthur and Lord Varys to their own. 

Daenerys was the first to speak as all four of them approached the alcove, where Uncle Aemon was prone on a divan with a blanket over his rigidly gaunt legs. 

 _“Dear Rhaegar, you’ve requested the presence of your family here. Now that we’re all gathered, to what end have you summoned us?”_ Daenerys simpered.  

A smile broke out on both Lyanna’s and Rhaegar’s countenance as they sat down, a very peculiar sight after so long. They rarely smiled these days. What was even more puzzling was that they aimed the smile at _each other._  

 _“A letter has arrived from the east, Daenerys. Struck by dear Jon himself.”_ Lyanna replied with a lovely smile. Daenerys heard the gasp leave her lips before she could hold it. Her nephew had written sparsely, too engrossed with the war against the Dothraki. To hear word from him after so long was a balm to her concerns. 

 _“What word does he bring to us?”_ Rhaenys questioned, faintly glimmering. Daenerys knew that Rhaenys was glad to hear from her brother; a sister remains a sister. They dote on the younger ones with unchecked fondness.  

Rhaegar and Lyanna’s smile widened, and hope climbed its way up the ladder of Daenerys’ heart. _“He writes of a great victory. At the Painted Mountains, a battle between the imperial legions and the horselords has brought to heel the fearsome bloodrider Haggo, and the deaths of fifteen thousand Dothraki. The Seventh Legion alongside the Ninth Legion march with their banners high. A victory for the Empire!”_  

Of course, it is the first thing dear Rhaegar would mention. The Empire’s glory, then the family’s concern. But Daenerys did not allow it to get to her, and kept the serene air around her like an impenetrable armour, even if her interest ebbed and disappointment flooded in.  

 _Most unfortunate._ she lamented, it is no news that mattered to her.  

 _“That is not all.”_ Uncle Aemon rasped before anyone else could speak _. “Rhaegar loves to have away with duty first before the joy of family can be brought. Admirable in a sovereign, but unnecessary sometimes. Rhaegar, stop torturing your family and set aside the Empire for a moment.”_  

Even when plagued by cataract, Uncle Aemon’s eyes could see right through a person and peer into their very souls. She knew him to be a man with a loving heart and wisdom enough to fill ten libraries. But still, an elder Targaryen’s eyes were powerful tools to make a person writhe a bit in their spot. Fellow Targaryens were no exception. Daenerys smiled to herself hearing Uncle Aemon’s scalding words. He may not have ever sat the Obsidian Throne, but Uncle Aemon was once the third son, the brother and now the elder of an emperor. His voice still held the regality of a commanding man. It was commanding enough to scold one into submission at least. Daenerys perked up from her place on the divan, the tide turning and her interest flowing back to her.  

Rhaegar cleared his throat. _“In a couple of moonturns, Jon’s self-imposed call to imperial service will hit its fifth full cycle. With it comes the mark that will end his service to me, and to the Empire. One day, Jon is to govern alongside Aegon as his most trusted advisor. Thus, I have decreed for,”_ Rhaegar smiled to his wife again. _“our son to return to New Valyria. It has been ordained a moonturn ago, he must be well on his way now. The time is ripe for my sons to take a wife and continue the line of House Targaryen at long last. With Aegon’s nameday soon upon us, daughters from the far reaches of our great empire will attend. It will be a grand feast!”_  

Daenerys beamed radiantly at the news, her smile threatening to tear the muscles inside her cheeks. Oh, how long she had waited to hear such sweet words! To hear that beloved Jon was coming back to the capital at long last! Her heart was aflutter uncontrollably! Daenerys could not wait and see him again! To see his thoughtful frown dipping his eyebrows as he looked at the world with his smouldering tyrian coloured eyes, a deep kindness settled there, reserved only for those that had earned such a divine gift. Daenerys could beware the stars in his eyes again. She was mentally swooning at what was to come! 

 _“The Blackguard have been absent for a while now. Surely, Aegon isn’t that far removed from us.”_ Rhaenys spoke, gracefully rising from her place with a smile turned to her lord and master. _“Honoured Father, allow me to find Aegon myself. The Blackguard are not overly familiar with his hobbies or chambers. I’ll see to it personally that he’s brought before you.”_  

Rhaegar gave her a distrait wave of his hand. _“See to it then, Rhaenys. Talk some sense into your brother. Aegon is a man of many skills, but respect for decorum, he sadly lacks.”_  

Her lovely niece nodded and swept across the floor with a flutter of her dress, leaving the Emperor’s Great Chamber. Rhaegar stood up from the divan as well, pulling his wife along and took a glance at Varys. _“Have a letter written to Lord Nyessos Vhassar to create a list of invitees. Take special care to stress the prominence of the Houses Velaryon, Celtigar, Rogare, Belaerys and Qoherys. Those are of the utmost import. Their blood runs as deep as ours, back to the ruins of Old Valyria. The possible match between one of their daughters to my sons will keep Valyrian blood within the family without the Empire feeling betrayed for losing its chance to marry into our dynasty. Furthermore, the thousand most important citizens of our empire will be in attendance. Nothing must come short of the needs of the most influential. I want it to be the moment of their lives. Ah, and make preparations for games to be organized as well in Aenar’s Arena for the commonfolk. They shan’t be excluded of the festivities, or else the streets will fill with riots. If that doesn’t prove to be enough, cull the people with bread and water prices halved. We will compensate the merchants from the imperial treasury. Lord Treasurer Tycho Nestoris, will see to it that it is done.”_  

Varys bowed and muttered a low ‘Your Imperial Grace’ before he toddled off to deliver his message and then go about spinning his furtive webs. Rhaegar’s chambers now consisted of his most inner circle. With Varys gone, Daenerys knew that talk could now flow less restrained and clipped. Varys kept the secret of his allegiance close to him. Nobody truly knew whether he was a friend or a foe.  

Lyanna heaved out a loaded sigh, the frustration in keeping her Northern inhibitions at bay catching up to her at last. _“The Spider’s presence has always made us dance with our words. I don’t like him to be so duplicitous. If he was in the North, his sickly sweet courtesies would’ve cost him his tongue.”_ Rhaegar nodded noncommittedly at his wife’s words.  

Arthur crossed his arms. _“Varys knows we trust him not. He said so himself that it is a wise move. Though, he claims to value order, stability, and peace above all, none of us are privy to his plans and_ _schemes. He murmurs in all our ears enough to make us believe he’s essential to this court. Whoever taught him the dance of intrigue must’ve been a very talented mummer.”_  

 _“Or a very dangerous catspaw. They deceive with equal ease.”_ Lyanna whispered at Rhaegar’s side.  

Daenerys frowned a little. _“Varys has no reason to harbour treason inside his heart. I believe we have nothing to be worried about.”_  

Uncle Aemon hummed indulgently at her _. “Lyanna is not incorrect, sinister as it may sound, my dear girl. It is precarious of us to put stock in a man such as Varys, whose very role implies masquerading at all times. But what alternatives do we have? Precedent has shown us that whoever becomes a master of whisperers, they always abide their loyalty to the priciest secret. Whispers are their trading goods, and they would be poor merchants if they let it flow in only one way.”_  

 _“In spite of that…”_ Rhaegar at last spoke, making his way to the doors with Lyanna in tow. _“…the man is a eunuch still; he lacks a legacy. His ambitions go only as far as his ability to produce offspring. Without a seed of his own to take care of, what use does he have for all his accumulated influence? Or the traded secrets? For now, we must put our trust in his words. As long as his greatest concern lies with the Empire, we have no reason to question him. Let him spin his web, and see the enemies of New Valyria strangled in it.”_  

Arthur nodded, albeit grudgingly, and Lyanna all but frowned yet held her tongue from further waggling. Rhaegar had doused the flames of discussion with his stance, and none dared, or mayhaps felt the desire, to argue otherwise. The imperial monarchs and the High Commander gracefully sauntered across the silver floor, exiting the Emperor’s Great Chamber with a dozen Blackguards quick to join their exit, congregating around them and leading the way. Daenerys was left with Uncle Aemon, and the elderly man shuffled a bit inside his blanket.  

 _“I haven’t seen my brother in such good spirits for quite some time.”_ Daenerys smiled, assisting her uncle in finding a comfortable spot. _“The Empire has stripped him of the few joys in his life, but when he speaks about the family, you can hear his pride.”_ She let a simper cross her lips.  

Old Uncle Aemon hummed again and took a sip of his cup of water _“I sometimes ponder on that, young Dany. When your little niece and nephews were but babes bouncing on my knee, much like yourself once, they smiled to me so innocently, I shed a tear in remembrance. They reminded me of my own Egg so much. And the rueful fate that befell him. He was but a young and bright man once, eager to please and unaware of any pains. A young man that had to kill the boy inside him, to become the ruler he was expected to be.”_  

Uncle Aemon craned forward to look at Daenerys more firmly. “ _I denied the crown for a reason. Not to escape duty, or burden, or unpleasantries. Nay, I took the chains of a maester, because the Citadel helped me understand much in this world. I regret not having been there to aid my brother in his reign, but I have tried to make up for that by counselling your dear brother.”_  

Uncle Aemon spluttered, a little bit of water flowing down the wrong way when he sipped another gulp from his cup. Daenerys rubbed his back soothingly.  

He regained himself quickly, and it seemed he wished to speak more. “ _The dignity of Holy Valyrian Emperor is a great one, but also a burdening one. Great power with an even greater responsibility. A throne of desolate solitude. The day Rhaegar sat upon the Obsidian Throne, was the day he stopped smiling, and started ruling over a bleeding realm. One day, Aegon is to sit that throne, with none that can truly understand him. When the emperor stands, he stands alone, for none are his equals. That_ _solitude can be crushing. Remember Dany, we are a family very susceptible to our mind. Greatness, and madness are two sides of the same coin, said Jaehaerys the Wise once. When a Targaryen is born, the gods flip it, and the world holds its breath to see how it will land. Aegon’s coin has not yet landed. We must make sure, come what may, that it will never land on the wrong side.”_  

Daenerys did not know what to say to that, so she came with the simplest response; to seek clarification. _“H-how, uncle? How can we make sure of that?”_  

Uncle Aemon’s lips thinned to a line, his frown resigned and woeful. _“A difficult conundrum, one I do not have the answer to, wise as I am. All I know is that neither he, nor Jon, or Rhaenys are made of true steel. Aegon is more gold than flesh; beautiful and bright, eager to please, but fickle and easily spent by stronger-willed people. A means to buy an end. Jon is an iron sword, strong, just and hard, yes, yet his morals are rigid. He will sooner break than bend to the whims of others. Very much Lyanna’s son, and as obstinate as her. And Rhaenys? She is the scabbard that keeps neither iron or gold from turning brittle. All three stand beside each other in disturbed harmony; the three heads of the dragon, entangled and conflicted.”_  

Now, Daenerys felt the chunk of dread form in her throat, hard-pressed to swallow it. Her granduncle had reconciled himself with such a dreary fate over their family, she feared it could easily become true. Her heart could not bear it. She had to ask.  

 _“Why, uncle? Why must your heart think so crestfallen?”_  

 _“Because, dear child, when I looked upon Aegon and Jon five years ago, I saw brothers in nothing but blood. Aegon is raised with loose morals, with no mother that taught him solid virtues. The gods know Lyanna tried, but blood is strong, and Lyanna does not share a drop of it with him. Jon is stubborn, and a bit imperious, like Targaryens are wont to be. He puts very little faith in his brother. Their views and values are as night and day, too different to understand the other. Rhaenys cannot hope to keep their peace for long, for she is but a sister. One day, she will have to make a choice. Rhaegar sees it not, or mayhaps refuses to, but it is clear to all others. Aegon and Jon must find common cause.”_  

 _“And if they do not?”_  

 _“Then alas, we shall mayhaps witness a second clash of dragons…”_  

Daenerys did not want to believe that. It felt… not right. But who was she to question her granduncle? She, who had barely seen two decades pass, while Uncle Aemon saw the birth and death of four emperors? To question Uncle Aemon was to question his wit. Wisdom spoke harder than ideals. And Uncle Aemon had enough wisdom to last them all a lifetime.  

So, she pushed such thoughts to deeper recesses of her mind, and decided to look forward to Jon’s return. A precarious smile was plastered on her face.  

Yes, with Jon’s return, everything would be as it should.  

Jon would bring with him the healing balms this family so desperately needed. 

She would make sure of it.

* * *

**NEW VALYRIA**

**RHAENYS I**

Finding her brother in the grand maze of the Scarlet Palace was of no great challenge for Rhaenys. To anyone not familiar with the ceaseless halls, losing oneself in one of them was naught to be ashamed of. It could prove to be quite the hurdle to find a way through the extensive and complicated architecture that was the Emperor’s Palace. But Rhaenys was born in these corridors. Forged in them. Cultivated in them. Whether behind a tapestry, or a well concealed lid, Rhaenys knew every nook and cranny of the imperial palace. It was how she moved throughout, with the fleet footwork of a shadowcat. 

Her blood sensed her brother’s, _the blood of her blood_ , wherever he was in this world. Their link was something unexplainable, something primal, something utterly _instinctual_. Rhaenys felt her soul living in sync with his own. Aegon felt his heart beat with the same rhythm as hers, he once said. To be separated from the other, was to feel an immense and incomprehensible void within them. Their bond was a tether between them, forever connecting them in a way that felt so wholly right, it could not mean anything less than perfection. 

Rhaenys was convinced she and Aegon belonged to each other. That they were part of each other. A single vein where blood coursed through. How not? Once, they had shared the same womb. They were both the seed of beloved Elia and fair Rhaegar. Her love for Aegon could not be put into mere words.  

A part of her heart held love for the rest of her family as well. Father, Dany, Uncle Aemon, Jon, Lyanna to an extent. Even Viserys, unsound of mind as he was, she held an inkling of affection for. But none could come close to her love for Aegon. One half was filled by him and the other by her family. Rhaenys would forgive him any sin he could commit. 

The sound of a prolonged moan caught Rhae’s ears, muffled behind the oaken shield of a door carved out of ironwood. She sashayed towards the source whilst two Blackguards dutifully marched after her trail, one step behind. 

“Wait. I’ll enter alone. Stand vigil if you must.” She dismissed them without a glance, and stepped inside the room. A sudden seedy waft hit her, making her stagger like a gate from a battering charge.  

Across the room several women sprawled, winded, red-faced and panting behind their golden manes of hair. Two were on the floor, one on the divan and one had even made herself comfortable on the windowseat, lying against piles of cushions whilst the cool air of the twilight sky graced her porcelain skin. They were as naked as their nameday and coated in sheens of sweat and other bodily fluids Rhaenys did not need to discern. Their chests heaved with exertion, the size differing from great breasts to small hills, with their swollen nubs protruding like the tips of a cow’s nipples. At an eye’s glance, Rhaenys took note of their pink, sore and well used cunts. 

Rhaenys had to press her tights together at the utter _wantonness_ of it all _._  

The bed with drapes and a canopy was veiled by satin curtains, two silhouettes in the midst of a fervent tryst within. One was bucking his hips in rapid succession, hands firmly planted on the hips of his partner. The other, spread on all fours, was on the receiving end of said rough buffeting, wet and salacious slaps following one another at each hard thrust. A mixture of strained grunts and high-pitched mewls accompanied their rutting, lewd enough to even make someone as open-minded as Rhaenys flush in embarrassment. It was the only word that fit the way the two were entwined, for they engaged in coupling not like tender lovers, but more like a pair of sex-starved animals. 

Rhaenys knew the moment she heard a cursed groan in High Valyrian who it was fucking his way into the plump rump of some bedwarmer with vulgar determination.  

Aegon had forsworn his attendance with the imperial family for another bout of sexual adventure.  

Gods, when would he learn? 

“Gods, bless them–for creating such–fine cunts–oh–I’m about to burst–oh–fuck.” Aegon grunted between pants. His thrusts became more erratic, his breath unhinged, sounding more and more like the pants of a dog in heat than a dignified prince. The girl moaned an entire song of sweet debauchery, whispering filth in answer to her lover and encouraging Aegon to keep pounding her into oblivion. 

“Peak for me–ohh!–my prince! Drown yourself–ahh!–in pleasure–yes!–and come undone!” Her moans slurred into shrieks as Aegon’s efforts doubled. Rhaenys had had enough of the shrouds, and ripped them aside, startling both her brother and, surprisingly, his _black-haired_ harlot. More often than not, Aegon favoured Valyrian looking harlots. This one had an uncanny resemblance to women of the North… 

Rhaenys lifted her eyes to her brother, and she was, for a spare moment, distracted by the utter beauty of her younger sibling.  

He was a creature drawn in the night and forged from starlight by the fingers of R’hllor himself. Aegon’s hair was a silky mane of white and platinum, his face sculpted and regal, a complete replica of Father’s, with high cheekbones, an aquiline nose and a jaw sharp enough to cut stone. His eyes were a lovely indigo, ethereal, pooling and always arch in their glimmer.  

His taut pectorals and rippling abdomen strained from exertion, glistening in a layer of sweat over his tanned, pristine and hairless skin, accentuating every detail of the splotched pink of blood pumping throughout his body. His thick arms stretched the skin of his flesh with sinewy muscles, strong enough to lift her up as if she had the weight of a mere feather. Oh, how many times were those warm and powerful arms wrapped around her waist while he thrusted into her, the cushion of her featherbed trembling, she licking every part of his neck and chest while Aegon’s cock spearheaded a fiery conquest into her cunt?  

Aegon’s face was drawn with confusion, his hips still lazily cocking back and forth into his lover. One of his hands was kneading the flesh of her backside, interring himself deeper with each pull of her hips towards his cock. The other cupped a fleshy teat, pressing his torso against her back. 

“R-Rhae, I didn’t expect you, should I–” 

“–Oh, don’t stop for me, beloved brother. I’m not here to end your pleasures. On the contrary,” Rhaenys cupped the dark-haired girl’s chin and gazed sultrily into her grey eyes, simpering as the girl grinned at her excitedly. Rhaenys had grown worn out from the liquid speech of High Valyrian, her tongue licking her chafed lips from talking such an intricate language for so long and she was eager to wet them with this girl’s taste, “let me help you reach your release.”  

She kissed her lips harshly, swelling them more than they were. Her plush lips were pulsing from either swallowing Aegon’s girth earlier or enlacing her tongue with his in a couple of hot open-mouthed kisses. As Rhaenys explored the cavern of her mouth, a blend of sweet and salt greeted her tongue, and aptly Rhaenys deduced the girl had drank some of her brother’s seed. She knew the taste like it was her favourite wine.  

As Rhaenys intruded the girl’s mouth with her tongue, Aegon resumed thrusting his hips, pounding the cunt coiled around his cock with foolhardy abandon again, not wasting any time in being tender. Rhaenys had to eat a few of this girl’s screams, who was caught surprised at the forcefulness of Aegon’s throes. He was surely invigorated by the lusty sight of his sister kissing another girl.  

A series of deep groans escaped his throat, signalling him to be almost over the ridge, and Rhaenys smirked. “Come, little brother. Let loose, tumble into the abyss and seek your release.” Her whispers buoyed him up, and she alternated between supping on the girl’s mouth and speaking utter filth to Aegon. 

“Gods! I’m going to peak…!” And then, Rhaenys witnessed a most magnificent sight while sucking on the girl’s tongue. With a final thrust, Aegon’s rod buried itself deep inside his lover’s reddened cunt, her walls fluttering tight around his cock and his balls constricting and unloading his Targaryen seed without restrain.  

A drawn out groan escaped him as his body toppled forward, crashing into the bed on top of the harlot fond of singing to the entire palace how well she was being fucked. 

“Rhae, that was…” Aegon panted as he began to rise, leaving the rest of the words hanging. He did not get to finish them, as Rhaenys crawled across the bed and captured his lips in a full kiss, swallowing down his groan of intoxicated lust.  

Her vision coloured more lively with each stroke of their tongues. Kissing Aegon felt as though the world finally made sense to Rhaenys. She could only describe it as ascension to the ethereal planes. It was not only filled with sheer lust, but also an undertone of utter devotion. The abyss beneath Rhaenys suddenly felt very tantalizing to tumble into.  

But alas, she could not. 

Rhaenys was the one who initiated the kiss, and she too broke away first, lest she would forget herself and be swept in the winds of passion. “Get dressed Aegon, we have a great deal to discuss. Father was cross with you for not being present and I can’t find fault in his indignance. There were matters of great import spoken of this time.”  

Rhaenys tucked away a strand of her charcoal locks behind her ear, frowning as Aegon merely shrugged her concern off and started collecting his clothes from the ground. 

“When has Father ever been content with anything we do, Rhae? I brokered an agreement with the Archon of Tyrosh that helped us save thousands of gold dragons, and the only answer he gave was a nod.” He smirked sardonically after he tucked his pants on. “I care little if he is vexed with me or not. Father may move mountains and lakes with his eyes, but I’m not affected. Years of disregard have taught me much.”  

Rhaenys felt her eyebrows crease deeper. “You must watch yourself, Egg. The walls have ears.” Rhaenys threw a side-glance at the other occupants, who were keeping their interest poorly veiled. She stepped closer and whispered. “And so too do harlots. You can’t speak in such open defiance against Father. Who knows whose ears are sewn to theirs.”  

It was Aegon’s turn to be cantankerous, his sparkling eyes narrowing the slightest bit. “Let them hear of my displeasures, for once. I’ve kowtowed enough to cater Father’s satisfaction. He and I have been at odds for quite some time, more so since Jon left the capital to fight against the savages of the open fields.” He disregarded her for a spare second to smirk at the ingratiating girls around, grabbing for a bag of coin placed on an end table. He dropped the coin bag at one of their feet. “Tell Chataya her services were appreciated. You may go now, my sister and I wish to be left in peace.”  

With a disparaging wave, Aegon dismissed them, and then wrapped his arms around Rhaenys’ middle, pulling her closer to his burning chest. “So, dear sister, pray tell, what was Father so adamant that I be in attendance for?”  

Her hands were firmly plastered on his muscled chest, faces mere inches away. Rhaenys could feel his searing breath on her lips. She could feel the dampness of his lingering sweat on her palms, and it did very licentious crimes to her mind. Rhaenys could not allow herself to dwell on it. She had to keep in mind the nonce and push away such lustful thoughts.  

Rhaenys gently disentangled herself from her brother and padded around the chamber. “Father spoke of many subjects of import, Jon’s victory over the Dothraki the most prevalent.” Aegon raised an eyebrow, not at all interested, and poured himself some Tyroshi pear brandy.  

“Truly now? Father praising our little brother’s achievement over braided barbarians? The gods have brought some sentiment to our father again.” 

“Braided barbarians or not, Egg, Jon has served the Empire a great victory. It’s true, Father has regained some of his sentiments.” Aegon snorted, none too pleased to hear her praise their brother, but nodded nevertheless. 

“If you say so, Rhae.”  

She shook her head; she knew Aegon felt a tinge of affection towards Jon, albeit grudgingly. Jon’s departure five years ago changed Aegon’s mind set. Still a hotblooded man driven by passion, but now, his other skills started to shine. Mayhaps, his brother’s leave had made him finally question the intricacies of life around him. Rhaenys was eager to see the exchange between the two again. Hopefully, some of Jon’s ill-conceived pride had dimmed a bit too. She was impatient for her brothers to come to their senses and reconcile.  

She continued. “Father speaking of Jon merely led to what came next.” 

“Which was?” 

“Your nameday. As Jon is making his way back towards the capital, Father plans to host a grand feast in honour of your nameday.” 

Aegon’s eyes glimmered, but his interest was not fully sparked. He knew she was not telling him everything. “You’re holding back something. Father mentioned other affairs as well, or you wouldn’t have bothered searching for me.” 

Rhaenys sighed. “Yes, Father also spoke about the prospect of you and Jon taking a wife finally at this feast.”  

Now, Aegon did look like his interest was fully piqued, only, he looked none too pleased again. Aegon looked aside with a scowl. “Has it come to this then? The politics of marriages? What did Father say?” 

She perched herself on a decorated fur chair, and cursorily, Rhaenys wondered what kind of things Aegon had done when he was seated in it not too long ago.  

“In a couple of moonturns, you will reach your twentieth annum, the proper coming of age. Jon is already enroute to the capital and Father is making preparations for a grand festival. The Princes of Dragonstone and Summerhall will be formally introduced to the Empire. Invites will be sent across the far-flung corners of New Valyria. Many will be in attendance, including those holding a great amount of influence over the Empire. Father is intent to wed the both of you to the most powerful noble families to broker alliances, and no doubt, he’s seeking matching suitors for Dany and I.” 

Aegon scoffed, about to sip his pear brandy, but opted not to when he heard Rhaenys speak of potential solicitors to her hand. “I don’t care who Father chooses to be my wife, I won’t adhere to it.” He closed the distance between them in a couple of strides, taking a knee by her legs and cradled her face. Aegon gazed at her like she was a most precious porcelain vase from the east, and he a zealous collector of fine YiTishware. “I refuse to acknowledge any man who wishes to take you as his wife. You’re not meant to be a mere lady to some Essosi inbred. You’re meant to rule with _me_ . As my _Empress_.” He whispered, placing soft but short kisses to her lips.  

Rhaenys smiled against his lips, but any person could see right through it, for it was made of false silver; a smile that did not reach the eyes. She brought her own hands up, placed them on top of Aegon’s and pried them off tenderly. 

“It’s not what we wish, Egg, but it is what’s expected of us.” She frowned wistfully, standing up and approaching the windowseat to look out, on to the shimmering waters of Dagger Lake and beyond, to the dimmed sun inertly creeping down. Like the sun, Rhaenys was drowning, swallowed whole by an ocean of uncertainties and troubles, only she knew not for sure if she could rise above again without trouble, but the sun did. The sun’s rise was absolute. Hers clung to the whims and wishes of fate.  

“Our heart’s desire does not align with our solemn duty.” As soon as the word duty was spoken, Aegon’s scowl deepened. Rhaenys pressed on. “Princes and princesses of our stature are creatures of duty, and my duty lies first with my emperor, and then with my heart. For the sake of the Empire and its future, this must be done.”  

“No,” He said in stubborn rejection, his jaws tight and teeth gnashing. “I will not have it, Rhae! What difference is there between Father and the emperor these days? None, I tell you! We have become mere pawns in Father’s game of cyvasse! I refuse to live such a life!” He wheezed, barely holding back his wroth.  

Aegon may have sounded petulant, but that rang true, painful as it was to confess. Nowadays, it was hard to make the separation between her empathetic father whom she loved, and the pragmatic emperor who she served. Sometimes, there was no point in trying to make the distinction. Father slipped into his clothes as sovereign like it was a second skin. Done within a snap of his fingers. Father made decisions for the family without a sliver of doubt and moved its members like pieces across the board in a game of cyvasse.  

It was a game of power for Father after all. A way to further the family’s consolidation. There was nothing wrong with it, in essence, only, it was ruthlessly prosaic. Father’s duty was the security of his legacy. The hearts of his loved ones were of no concern in such a matter. Yet, Rhaenys did not begrudge Father. Father had Uncle Aemon for that. He always acted as his unfailing advocate with his words of reason. 

 _A man who loves, gives hostages to fortune, Rhaenys, for they are an impediment to great enterprises, either of virtue or mischief. He who loves has the incentive not to tempt fortune. You must forgive your emperor father, for it is not his will to act as he does. It is his duty._  

Aegon continued, his eyes a pair of sharpened gems, his thumbs drawing circles across her face affectionately after he embraced her again. “I will sing the oath of rebellion if he so much as forces you to marry anyone but me.”  

“Aegon!” Rhaenys hissed, yet again coming to the window, as scathed by his words. She looked horrified over her shoulder. “You forget yourself! It is _treason_ to speak so brazenly!”  

But Aegon, the obstinate, boorish cretin he sometimes was, did not seem to find it in himself to regret. Again, he made an attempt to grab a hold of her, but Rhaenys was quicker and evaded his advances.  

Aegon grimaced. “Are you rejecting me now, Rhaenys?”  

Rhaenys wrapped her lissom arms around herself, unable to meet his face. “I could never reject you, Aegon.” 

Two arms wrapped around her waist again, pressing her back to a set of hard muscles. She sighed and melted into the embrace as Aegon pressed featherlight kisses upon her jawline, behind her earlobes, and temples. 

“When the day comes that I mount the Obsidian Throne, I’ll forge a golden seat of equal grandeur for you to sit next to me. We will rule New Valyria _together_ , Rhaenys. As emperor and empress. As husband and wife. And none will deny us that. Not duty, not the Elder Council, and certainly not Father.”  

Rhaenys flinched. “Egg, Father is not our enemy.” How could Aegon consider Father an _enemy_? “He is our liege lord, and–” 

“–a tyrant _._ Don’t defend him, Rhae, I know Father and what he thinks of me. As Jon was away waging war with the Dothraki, _I_ was here, busy garnering influence across the Empire, making powerful friends and forging promising alliances for our cause. And Father never once voiced his praise of us. Only when Jon stakes his life to win a battle, does a sense of pride come to him. I need have no need for Father’s approval then, if he doesn’t see the value of our efforts.” 

“You’re right, Aegon.” Rhaenys nodded absently.  

Every single nobleman they treated with, put stock in Aegon as much as he thought they did. His gift for diplomacy and speech was unrivalled. Aegon could convince a red priest to declare fire blasphemy. Nobles were wary of him, of his attractive radiance and his desires, but with only a few spoken words, Egg could wrap the masses around his finger. Some even took advantage of his desire to please, and pranced about with their wives, sisters, daughters to entice the crown prince. The nobles buttered up to him with lofty words, honeyed promises and eager bedwarmers. And their women never complained of his skills. But Aegon was not _so_ easily manipulated. If anything, he seemed to take pity on the poor women, and give them at least one night of unforgettable pleasure. 

Her brother was as sharp as a blade, and capable in ruling, if guided by the right hands. Jon, Egg and she could be the three-headed, if they worked together.  

Rhaenys had witnessed vignettes of Aegon’s and Jon’s potential. Once, they corrected a calculation error made by the Emperor’s Hand and his mint advisers regarding the state finances. Nyessos Vhassar never flushed with such embarrassment than that day when he was corrected by boys barely ten-and-four.  

Despite his quick wit and latent potential, Aegon was too busy indulging in orgies nowadays. By R’hllor’s mercy, did he not see that _she_ was more than capable of pleasing him? That she could put the endurance of ten paltry harlots to shame?  

The whores of Lys worshipped the ground he walked on, much as the clothe merchants, the jesters, the mummers and the cooks. The only thing the plebeians had in common was the small fortunes of gold Aegon threw their way for his amusement. He was a hefty contributor to the pillow houses after all. And a ravenous eater. And fond of fashionable clothes. And sports. And Aegon found it of more import to attend the games in Aenar’s Arena. Now, Rhaenys was not one to say that there was dishonour in such indulges, but it certainly did not help Aegon shape into a deferred prince either.  

“In fact, we are to meet one of my most important allies right now, Rhaenys.”  

Jolted, Rhaenys was brought back to the world, and slightly turned her head to catch her brother’s smirking eyes. 

“Who are you speaking of?”  

“Of me, Your Highness.” A different, subtle and measured voice answered, and the sound of a door clicking shut made Rhaenys step out of Aegon’s arms and eye the newcomer with caution. If the sigil of the mockingbird sewn on the breast of his doublet had not given him away, his salt and peppered coloured hair and the small pointed beard on his chin most assuredly told Rhaenys who she was facing. It brought her guard up even higher.  

“Petyr Baelish, what is your purpose here?”  

His grey-green eyes smiled, a sweet-looking but stomach-churning quirk that Baelish always did around the Scarlet Palace to charm and scheme his way towards his goals.  

“Why, it was at the insistence of your dear brother that I am here, Princess Rhaenys.” 

She flicked her head to Aegon, who went and grasped the Braavosi’s hand in a firm handshake.  

“Is that so?” She muttered blankly. Inwardly, Rhaenys was fretting. What was Aegon thinking? Had he no regard of this man and his reputation for being utterly _inscrutable_? 

Petyr Baelish, like a few others at court, was a mystery few had the patience or wits to unfurl. A kowtowing man with a disarming smile playing at his lips at all times and with a mind sharper than what you would expect of a lowborn man, Petyr Baelish was but a merchant who correctly played his pieces, bought the right favours here and there and then found himself some sort of position at the Valyrian court as a result. None truly knew what he did at the Scarlet Palace.  

None really seemed to care. Some courtiers whispered that he had endeavours with the Spider. Others said he was merely an owner of theatres, with an entire entourage of mummers at his disposal, eager to please weary nobles with a comedy or tragedy. A true lord of the mockingbirds. And others spoke of owned brothels and groomed whores doing his biddings. That one disconcerted her the most. 

Whatever his profession was, Rhaenys was sure of one thing. Petyr Baelish was a man wearing a mask, over a mask, over another mask. A man with different faces. Too many different faces, as though he was essentially faceless. Sometimes, Rhaenys even wondered whether his mask was a flawless lie, or an ugly truth hidden in plain sight. She was never certain when it came to this Braavosi outsider.  

Petyr Baelish was a man who offered too many smiles, and readily did the peskiest tasks. It was no wonder why Varys found him so intriguing. The eunuch probably looked into a mirror and found himself gazing into the unsmiling eyes of Petyr Baelish.  

“Rhae, Baelish wishes to discuss my future plans about the construction of my personal estates along the Rhoyne.” Aegon said, taking a scroll from the Braavosi’s hand. 

“Estates? What estates? Aegon, what in the Lord’s name are you planning?” She questioned her brother. 

“I wish to build great pleasure manors along the banks of the Rhoyne. There, I can entertain my supporters and lay down the groundwork of our future.” 

“Groundwork? Aegon, you’re speaking nonsense. You’re the Prince of Dragonstone. Once wed, you and your consort will take leave for our ancestral home. Your manse will only fall into disrepair, and become a waste of coin.” 

Aegon’s lips curled in disdain. “I’ve no desire to be sent away to some barren island. For all I care, Father can give a vassal the seat of Dragonstone, it’s beneath me to live in such a dismal place.” 

“Stop being insolent, Aegon! You’re the heir to the Obsidian Throne! Have you any idea wha–” 

“–I’m not being insolent! And you must watch yourself, Rhaenys! My love for you burns without like, but even you mustn’t forget who I am! Your prince, your future emperor and your future _husband_.”  

The tension was high between herself and Aegon, thick enough to be cleaved through with a knife. No matter what she was doing or saying, Aegon found no interest and Rhaenys was becoming frustrated by his wilfulness. He was too absorbed with himself and whatever he was planning. And what worried her even more, was that Petyr Baelish had a whiff of it. This had never happened before. Aegon usually had an ear for her thoughts and words, but now.  

“Egg, please listen to me an–” 

“I’ve heard enough, Rhae. Now, I will speak, and the world will listen.”  

Rhaenys reeled in shock. Never had Aegon sounded so utterly dismissive towards her. She stood petrified for a moment, unsure what to do. She was dismissed, right in front of this lowborn Braavosi creature.  

“Mayhaps, I should return at another, more auspicious time, my prince?” Baelish suggested, feigning concern, but his eyes twinkled mischievously. “Her Highness seems to have a lot on her chest, and if there are matters to be discussed between you two, I shan’t be a bother.” 

Rhaenys’ throat and ears blossomed pink at his words. How dare he insinuate his pity for her? How dare Petyr Baelish? The shame Rhaenys slowly started to feel was unbearable, and her teeth were grinding themselves to fine dust. But she would not show frustration.  

“You’ll be no bother, Baelish. I’ll take my own leave.” Rhaenys managed to snap. It was beneath Rhaenys Targaryen, the eldest daughter of the great Holy Valyrian Emperor to show frustration. More so in front of those who did not deserve to witness it. So, she did what she thought best, and stormed off. If Aegon wanted to consort with the likes of Petyr Baelish, let him. Let him be bitten by the beak of a mockingbird. 

As she re-entered the lanes of the imperial palace, Rhaenys strode with her silken slippers over the marble floor with no clear destination in mind. She just wanted to make distance between herself and Aegon right now. Her back was straight, her shoulders squared and her face the very meaning of imperialty. The people she walked by were awestruck, blinded by her radiance and unable to resist bowing their heads in deference. She was greeted with the utmost respect befitting her rank. Such was the air she carried herself with. The court may be filled with ladies of great beauty from the corners of the Empire, but none of them held dignity and grace so naturally in her gait as Rhaenys Targaryen did. Not even Daenerys. Not even Lyanna. 

 _Let them see me for who I am. A princess worthy of my blood. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. A sun dragon amongst sheep. A woman who cannot be so easily dismissed. A woman worthy of the utmost respect._ For a second, Rhaenys remembered her black-haired brother Jon, and smiled softly at the image. Her heart was true to Aegon, but Rhaenys would be a liar if she said she did not hold affection for and miss her other little brother. 

 _It would be sweet to see him again._ Rhaenys’ thought, but her mood turned a bit tart again. _Even if only to see him give Aegon a mind to rival his own._

* * *

**LANNISPORT**

**TYRION I**

 

With a shattering roar, Tyrion spilled his seed into her cunt, feeling his cock constrict, shudder and unload deep inside her. A groan of satisfaction snaked its way of out him with the final few lazy thrusts. 

A few moments later, his entertainment for the night had dressed herself already, washing her sex with a damp cloth and applying some sugary smelling oils to her neck and wrists. Her young and supple arse sat abed and Tyrion could see the lines of her generous curves hugging the rims of her tight dress. 

“What’s your name again, sweetcheeks?” Tyrion smirked.  

“Aline, my lord.” She simpered back, her hands still working on her hair. 

“What if I told you I’d give another five gold lions to have my cock inside your plump arse again, Aline?” Tyrion leered, lying sideways as he supported his head with a hand, whilst the sheet covered his small body. 

“Is my arse worth that much to you, my lord Tyrion?” She giggled. 

“No, but gold isn’t worth much when you’re almost shitting it.”  

Aline giggled further, her pretty teats jiggling. “Always such a charming tongue.” 

Tyrion’s grin grew larger as he climbed out of the sheets to come behind the brunette and take a handful of her breasts. “You didn’t mind what I did with my tongue earlier. Come now, sweet girl, another round, or three, and you can scurry back to your old tower and show your bawd how much of a good whore you’ve been. I’ll make it six gold lions even.” 

“I’m afraid that won’t happen, little brother.”  

“Jaime!” Tyrion laughed, seeing his older brother leaning against the doorway with that smug face that made many an ordinary-looking man froth at the mouth. “To what do I owe the honour of having my fair brother visit me while I’m having fun?” 

Jaime’s smirk widened. “To tell you that Father requires your presence. None of our servants managed to find you, so I took it upon myself to go and see what my dear brother’s been up to. Not surprised to see you with a whore.”  

Tyrion’s face fell. “As much as I always bear you love, Jaime, your reasons for fetching me offtimes ruin my fun. Mentioning Father is like speaking about murdered babies during mind games; A total spoilsport. Why can’t you ever tell me some foreign beautiful goddess of sex and wine came to our castle and wishes to take me as her husband?”  

Jaime pushed himself from the doorway, strutted inside and picked up his clothes. “Wouldn’t that be a story of the ages?” Jaime threw his clothes right into his face. “Hurry up, little brother, and get dressed. We don’t want all of Lannisport to see the honourable Prince Tyrion Lannister walking around naked as his nameday.” 

A few moments later and Tyrion was sitting atop his pony, straightening his red and gold doublet with one hand and drinking from a wineskin with the other. Before they parted, Tyrion had to slap Aline’s arse one last time before the call of his father, King Tywin, beckoned him. He cantered side by side with his brother Prince Jaime Lannister, who chuckled loudly when a gulp too big left the wineskin’s mouth and doused Tyrion’s chin.  

The lanterns around Lannisport lay low in their brightness as the hour of the owl drew closer. Some traders were still going about finishing the last bits of their business, tying loose ends here and there and clearing up their stalls and the likes while a littering of people were trying to take down the lamps and firelights hanging about the posts and houses. A couple of jesters and firecrackers were still performing their little stunts, but to no audience, as the streets seemed drained of all life. The night had come, and most of the people had retired. Under the strict orders of the Great Lion. 

Today was the last day of the harvest feast, the traditional period when the succulent crops were plucked and the smallfolk decided to indulge themselves a bit. Father found it a wasteful tradition, but then again, it was hard to deny the commoners some small relief occasionally. Not even he was cruel enough to not let the smallfolk ease their backs a bit. The peasants had been lackadaisical enough when Toothless Tytos warmed the throne of the Rock. Under his reign, people had it cosy and work getting done was scoffed at. Father brought change to that. 

Grandfather Tytos was still a fond memory to them, the Laughing Lion they would call him, with a sneer or otherwise, depending on who told the tale. A great carouser, but a spineless king, unlike his son.  

 _For those of us who sit upon the throne of the Rock, there can be no mercy for disobedience. One ounce of lenience, and the hounds will come and tear you apart. Lannisters never allow for disloyalty to grow like a weed, for Lannisters always pay their debts, and have their debts paid._  

It would be completely foolish to think Father and he would be cats of the same coat. Where Grandfather smiled, Father frowned. Where Grandfather laughed off insults, Father enacted punitive justice. The Kingdom of the Rock did not love King Tywin Lannister. They respected him. That was all Father wanted from his subjects anyway.  

“Six lions? Really? You were prepared to buy her two horses, sweet brother?” Jaime drawled as they trotted across the main road towards Casterly Rock. 

“If she refused me, I would’ve raised it to eight lions, not gonna lie, Jaime.” Tyrion laughed and Jaime joined in on it. 

“Must’ve been a pretty good harlot if you’re willing to go that high.” At that, Tyrion’s grin grew out of its line. 

“But she was not a harlot, sweet brother. That was one of Lord Prestan Broom’s daughters.” Jaime looked up, surprised. “Their father has been whoring them out for some time now. You know what the other lords say about the Brooms? As their words? ‘A House with no house’. The Brooms have no seat of their own, but a small little tower that’s as decrepit as an old man’s cock. Lord Broom wants to bring change to that, but he needs gold to succeed. And so, he’s forcing his daughters to suck that gold out of the cocks of rich lords, old or young.” 

“And I take it you’re eagerly partaking in that? Investing in Lord Broom’s…less than honourable means of gathering finances?” Jaime lifted his eyebrow, amused. 

Tyrion kicked the sides of his pony, the little creature whinnying as a result. “Hey, the arse on that girl was worth every dime I paid. Soft but firm, bouncing up and down on my–” 

“Alright, alright, I don’t need to know the nitty-gritty details.” Jaime grimaced, lashing the reins on his horse. 

It was Tyrion’s turn to smirk smugly. “Why act like such a prude? Like you’ve never been between a woman’s legs. That reminds me, how is our dear sister doing?” 

The smile was wiped clean from Jaime’s face, doing a complete turn and changing into a scowl. “Your jests are getting tasteless, sweet brother.” 

“Oh, come now, take a joke, will you?” Tyrion howled with good humour, earning him a deeper scowl from his brother. Then he fixed his face into a more casual expression. “Jokes aside, we all know how close you and Cersei were, when our dear sister still haunted these halls. It’s rather an open secret, for those who picked up the little bits between you two, at least.” 

“And those who picked that up were…?” 

“What, planning to have them silenced?”  

Their banter continued on like that all the way to Casterly Rock. A cohort of knights soon joined the two Lannister brothers, escorting them to the heart of the Kingdom of the Rock. Tyrion and Jaime had to go through a small patch of greenwoods, and Tyrion hummed to himself along the road towards their home. It was not a long trek, as Lannisport and Casterly Rock were only an hour away walking distance, and half that time with a trotting horse.  

And then came into view the great pride of their House, the seat of the Kings of the West, the lair of the golden lions.  

Casterly Rock.  

To add as another impressive notch under their belt as royals of the west, many a Lannister had described the ancestral seat of their family as a lion in repose at nightfall, gazing down at the Sunset Sea proudly. Almost two leagues long from west to east, and containing hundreds of tunnels, dungeons, storerooms, barracks, halls, stables, stairways, courtyards, balconies, and gardens, Casterly Rock could be very well explained as a beehive for men. 

It was also the tallest structure made by men, or so some of the Westermen maesters claimed. How strong that claim was, Tyrion knew not; the Hightowers always disputed the claim, saying instead the Hightower was the tallest structure built by man. Others crowned the Wall up north, where the Starks ruled and still rule, as the tallest. Not that Tyrion cared much about which claim held true. It was all a pissing contest between the kings of Westeros, trying to overarch the other in yet another race of pride and self-satisfaction. All that mattered to Tyrion was Casterly Rock and what it meant to him. The cradle of Lannister power and might. The lion’s den. 

The portcullis of Casterly Rock was pulled up the moment they came near to it, a gaping mouth inviting both Lannister brothers into the great rock hollowed out for their convenience and accommodation. Two guardsmen hailed them inside. Tyrion and Jaime stepped down from their stirrups and allowed their horse and pony to be taken off their hands by the ostlers. The torches around were still soundly ablaze, and that meant the castle was not fully put to sleep yet.  

Jaime led the two of them on, his greaves scratching across the dirt floor, kicking up little clouds of dust in his wake whilst Tyrion was struggling to keep up with his brother’s knightly pace. At the far end of the inner courtyard was a serpentine stair leading up, and they ascended, Jaime taking two steps at a time, already there and waiting for him. Tyrion threw an exasperated glare to his brother when he smirked, seemingly pleased with himself. Besting a dwarf in stair climbing was a feat to be proud of after all.  

The stairs led to the Great Hall, which was alight with thousands of braziers all throughout. The walls were so bright, Tyrion once mistook them for solid veins of gold, brightly glimmering with light. The ceiling of the Great Hall was high and out of sight, and surely, a hundred chandeliers were hanging around to flood this cavernous place with light. Scarlet tapestries with no end hung down the walls, a fall of blood they looked, with the golden lion embroidered upon them, and an army of busts were strait up alongside a red carpet running down all the way of the Great Hall, from entrance to end, much like a tongue lolling out of a mouth. The Great Hall was so brightly alight that people could easily be fooled by time. Daytime seemed to be perpetual around here.  

“Come on Tyrion, Father is inside his solar. Going through some last ledgers and missives can keep him busy for rather long, and now that I think on it, he’ll give you a good scolding likely before we sit down for business. Nothing new, right? He’ll scald you so good with one of his tongue-lashings, you could be thrown for the lions as a night time tiffin.” Tyrion rolled his eyes. “Why do you always just roll your eyes?” 

“I can’t very much fear Father, now can I? What’s he going to do, throw me off the cliffs? He had that chance when I was a babe. Besides, I’ll bet Cersei would pay good coin to see that, me being offered to the lions that is. She’d smack those pretty little lips of hers at every snap of their jaws as they tear me apart. Like it’s her own maw that devours me.”  

“What a disturbing sight you just gave me, little brother. I just imagined our sister eating you alive.” 

“I’d bet you’d rather imagine you eating her _out_.” Tyrion murmured under his breath. 

“What was that?”  

“Oh, nothing dear brother. Just a little self-mumbling.” 

As they talked, Jaime and Tyrion stepped on to a wooden elevator, and the elder Lannister nodded to a man as massive as an ox to pull the lever. Casterly Rock counted thirteen levels, and Father’s solar was built on the top, just above the throne room. No way in the Seven Hells would Tyrion climb all the stairs up towards the zenith. He did that once when he was a boy as punishment for one of his little pranks. Tyrion still remembered how his lungs burned that day.  

It did not take them a whole lot of time to reach the end, and when the wooden raft hit its stop with a small tremor that rattled Jaime’s armour, Tyrion and he exited and came face to face with the fairest girl in all of the Westerlands.  

Were it not for her sweet heart, Tyrion would have hated the girl to her core the way she danced and looked so much like his cold-hearted sister. Shining hair curling down her back like rings of beaten gold, eyes greener than finely cut emeralds, and lips that could curl into a smile strong enough to bring grown men to their knees in worship, Tyrion’s pretty little niece, the Princess Myrcella Durrandon was all a man could ever wish for in a daughter, a sister, a wife and a mother. The people praised her as Cersei made young again.  

That claim made Tyrion want to shove a dagger into the man’s heart for even daring to make the vile statement. Nobody should become like _dear_ Cersei, the venomous serpent she was, but Tyrion supposed Myrcella had no choice in the matter, being her child by that whoremonger Robert Durrandon. But the gods were kind in their drawing of Myrcella; she had all her mother’s beauty, and luckily, none of her nature.  

Myrcella was skimming her dainty fingers over the wings of her little lovebirds when she noticed them walking up. “Uncle Jaime! Uncle Tyrion!” She threw her hands up in the air, and the small green creatures took to the skies, darting through the halls with a flutter of their wings. Myrcella dipped her knees and ankles in a small curtsy. “Greetings, beloved uncles of mine, how very delightful to see you again.”  

Jaime stroked her cheek with a mailed hand, affection clear in the smiling eyes that matched hers. “Always the little princess, prim, proper and ready to bring smiles even to gravekeepers. You’d make your mother so proud.” 

“Indeed you’d make her proud.” Tyrion leaned in to whisper into her ear. “You’re wrapping your Uncle Jaime around your finger just like your mother did once. Careful now, my sister is _very_ possessive of her twin. Be merciful and don’t snatch him away from her too.”  

Ah, the little giggle Myrcella gave brought a bit of guilt to Tyrion. If only she understood the meaning behind his words, innocuous as they were at face value.  

“No need for worries, Uncle Tyrion, I won’t. Uncle Jaime has always been fond of Mother, and she to him. I don’t believe anyone can ever replace him and his role in her heart, or she in his.” Tyrion nodded at how painstakingly right she was in that.  

“Where is your brother, Myrcella?”  

“Tommen is abed and resting. The hour is late after all, and he enjoys sleeping when he can. Grandfather is stern in his lessons, but Tommen is determined to live up to his expectations.”  

“A good boy, that one. At least he has greater wits than Uncle Kevan’s boy, Lancel. Father doesn’t really see much worth in that boy. If his name wasn’t Lannister, he’d be scraping out kettles in the kitchens. Tommen may one day bring a smile to his grandfather’s face.” Jaime chuckled warmly. Tyrion doubted that, but the sentiment behind Jaime’s statement was appreciated.  

Out of the corner of his eye, Tyrion caught a young page fidgeting in his spot, seemingly wanting to announce something but not daring to speak up lest he insult the royal family.  

Tyrion smirked. “Oh, don’t worry, lad, we’re not going to bite you, say what you have to say and be on your way.” 

If he was ill at ease earlier, he was downright trembling in anxiety at being called out like that, not at all what Tyrion intended. Or did he? 

“Your Highnesses, His Grace, the king, will now receive you in his solar.” The young boy with fair hair slicked backwards stammered, bowed ungracefully and hurried off to deliver letters and whatnot for other members of House Lannister. Uncle Kevan and Aunt Genna particularly seemed fond to make him their errand boy, Tyrion seemed to recall.  

Sometimes, it was so utterly fun to bring little lordlings the same size as himself a little discomfort. Watch them squirm and stutter, all green and no fangs yet. They would grow up to be cunts one way or another, and so, pecking down their pesky attitude in the earlier years, something their parents did not wish to bother with it seemed, would prove to be a fruitful investment. This boy, Rollam, a son of Lord Gawen Westerling, was as good as any of them to pick on.  

As they proceeded forth, Tyrion was mildly surprised to see Myrcella padding with them, one step in line.  

“Father wishes for Myrcella’s presence too?” Tyrion queried, waddling alongside his brother.  

“Yes, brother. Our dear little niece has a part of great import to play.” Jaime answered, his green eyes smiling. 

“And what may that part entail, pray tell?” 

“Well, would you look at this?” Jaime’s smile turned teasing. “If I’m not mistaken, it’s always you who keeps prancing around knowing everything about everyone. It feels strangely satisfying to have knowledge about something that you don’t, for once, sweet brother.” Tyrion heard Myrcella’s amused titter, sounding much like the sept bells back in Lannisport. 

“Oh Jaime, are you envious of my wits?” Tyrion retorted with a snort. “Never thought the day would come that you’d be envious of something I had. A sharp mind comes in handy, though, so your jealousy is somewhat warranted. Pretty things aren’t worth much in the end, but wits? It matters little then when you’re so ugly, it brings a tear to the Mother’s eye. Knowledge always gives you that edge you need in life. On the other hand, _you_ will never need wits with a face so fair and a sword hand so nimble, Jaime. I don’t have that luxury, not exactly born with such fine graces, as you can see, but the gods believe in equity, so they gave me your wisdom, and Cersei’s, I’m certain.” 

Jaime barked out a laugh. “S’pose you’re right about that, Tyr. As bad as you are with a blade, so too am I terrible with ledgers and letters. All I know is how to inspire men to help me remove heads from shoulders. You’re right about me, but I don’t know about Cersei...” Jaime trailed off. Tyrion did, and by his view, Cersei was not as smart as she thought she was. 

“Back to my original question…” 

“ I wasn’t told much either, to be fair with you, brother, so I guess we’ll find out from Father himself, won’t we?” 

Indeed, for Father sat at his desk, writing with his quill on a piece of paper with quick and merciless strokes. No black spots, no spilled ink, Father’s desk crafted from spruce was a spotless surface of sleek wood. A testament to his discipline not to waste any ink for the thousands of letters he wrote daily. 

Watching Father write was like watching an artist procuring a piece of artwork; the ink was his paint, the paper his canvas and the way Father wrote his masterpiece. Every letter Father till now wrote always furthered the influence of House Lannister, so in a sense, Father was an artist. And his art was garnering power.  

“You’re late.” 

Tywin I Lannister, King of the Rock, Lord of the Westerlands and Shield of Lannisport, did not consider mincing words as a trait for kings. Father’s brevity could put poets to shame. 

 _Without a mind of steel, a king is as good as a doormat. Nothing attracts reason for rebellion more than an inept king. We are the rulers of the richest and most powerful kingdom in Westeros. Lannister kings are iron gauntlets, not silken gloves._  

“Forgive us, Grandfather, for our tardiness. I hope we didn’t make you wait for long?” Myrcella apologized placatingly. Father turned his elder eyes to his granddaughter and scoffed. That scoff held more weight than a thousand words. Tyrion waited, a smile that could not even fool a blind man over his lips as he braced himself for the beady eyes of his father to gaze upon him, and see the clear judgment.  

“Patience is a virtue I very much value, Myrcella. It was not the waiting I minded necessarily, it was _why_ I was waiting.” And there it was, the slight shift of his head when he looked at Tyrion, disdain as abundant as snow during winter, aimed directly at him. “Your uncle has his ways of keeping me awake and about, more often than I would like to care.”  

Tyrion swept into a mocking bow. “My sincerest apologies, Father, I was a bit…preoccupied in Lannisport. Businesses and the likes; being Master of Coin to your privy council is a tiring and much demanding task, after all. There were many…ledgers that required my attention.” 

“I’m sure they did.” Father responded gruffly, not at all convinced. He had set aside his quill and rose from his chair to stand, his full length casting a shadow across the wall. Father looked as dapper as always. “Close the door.” Father’s cupbearer, a Darry girl, did as he commanded, and soon, Father’s solar turned quiet when the sound of the door closing ceased ricocheting off the walls.  

“Well, now that we’re here, I reckon we can finally hear what’s so important it need be discussed in the middle of the night. It’s not every sennight you have us huddled here at your desk.” Jaime commented lightly, inching a bit closer to Myrcella, who sat demurely with her hands folded in her lap. She had taken a seat nearby on a plush divan, looking with eyes wide awake at Father.  

His niece, despite her courtesies and long years of being fostered at Casterly Rock, still did not find any comfort in being around her grandfather. Myrcella’s lively spirit turned quiet and strained in Father’s presence. Not that Tyrion found any of it strange; nobody found comfort in the presence of Tywin Lannister. Father was a field of needles, and being around him was walking alongside a narrow causeway across that field; always mindful of your steps. Though, Tyrion noted that Myrcella looked especially quiet right now. Then again, maybe it was just the sheer admiration little Myrcella had for her grandfather. She had never had a figure to call a father since her departure from the Stormlands. Tywin Lannister was cold as gold, yes, yet cruelty, he did not have a particular penchant for. Yes, Tywin Lannister was ruthless, but not cruel. His ruthless tutelage was worth a thousand chests of gold, for it served innumerable ways in the end. A man tutored by Tywin Lannister had the ability to live a little longer in this world than the average person. 

Father turned to his balcony, looking outside to the Sunset Sea, hands clasped behind his back. “Look at the seals of the letters I received.”  

Both Tyrion and Jaime peered over the letters, and saw the white and green form of a hand. The sigil of House Gardener.  

“You’ve been in correspondence with the Gardeners? Ah, I remember trekking through the Reach some years ago. Beautiful place. Even their shit smells like flowers.” Tyrion quipped. as he picked up a letter. As he did so, another sigil caught his eye, and this one truly piqued his interest. “Seven Hells, this is the imperial seal of the Holy Valyrian Emperor. Dragons taking an interest so far from their empire? What’s the meaning of all this?”  

Father turned, his gaze piercing as he responded. “The Dragons of New Valyria are stirring in their lairs. With the help of my contacts in New Valyria, I have made my move accordingly. As for the Gardeners, that concerns Jaime.” 

“Me? In what way do the Gardeners concern me?” Tyrion heard his brother say, who frowned in confusion. 

“The missive from the Holy Valyrian Empire was written by an acquaintance of mine, Nyessos Vhassar, the current Lord Hand to Rhaegar Targaryen. The other is a marriage arrangement between the Gardeners and the Lannisters.”  

A marriage arrangement? Between the Gardeners and the Lannisters? That meant… 

“You arranged a marriage for me, Father? Without my knowledge? It was Jaime who asked, whose voice rang outraged through Father’s solar.  

“As a matter of fact, I did. Incredulity is not within your rights, you have brought this upon yourself, Jaime. Your thirty-and-ninth nameday is soon approaching and still, unwed you have remained, until now.” Father ordered the Darry girl to pour him some water. Wine tainted the mind after all, he always scolded. “Offer upon offer, you refused, and I’ve tolerated that eyesore for as long as I could, and even allowed you to crusade with the Warrior’s Sons during the High Septon’s last Holy Inquisition. It’s high time you take a bride to your bed and start producing offspring. I must even admit, your celibacy has come at an advantageous moment.” 

“Advantageous moment? Making it sound like you got the sweetest deal on the market isn’t really helping. Who is it you so graciously decided to choose as my wife?” Jaime asked gruffly. He sounded like a peacock whose feathers were ruffled.  

Father remained unfazed, like all situations he was in. “You are to be wed to the Princess Margaery Gardener, the only daughter to Mace I, King of the Reach.” 

“W-what? A mere girl? She isn’t even two decades old. Isn’t she a tad bit young?” Jaime gainsaid weakly. 

Even Father scoffed at his son’s feeble attempt to argue back. “Too young? She is a girl flowered and grown at the age of ten-and-six, and to my knowledge, an excellent choice for marriage. What use is youth if not for showcasing fertility?” 

Tyrion snickered quietly. By the gods, Father made it sound like he was a horse breeder, dealing in stock of the finest pedigree. Father had done the same when he married off Cersei to Robert Durrandon. Tyrion had a laugh then about how Father shipped his only daughter to the Stormlands when that oaf sought out a bride to replace the Stark girl Lyanna. Without a moment’s hesitation if it meant having his daughter bear a child for another royal family. This time, Tyrion found it a bit less amusing, because now he actually cared for the sibling in question.  

“Father, I don’t think she and I will be compatible,” Jaime still stubbornly tried. “and even if we are, there are too many complications. I find her too young for starters, and she’s a foreigner. I don’t understand why you’ve gone out of your way to arrange a match outside of our realm. It’s highly unheard of to wed the heir to the throne to a foreign princess. Custom dictates tha– ” 

“I find it quite remarkable that finally, some understanding of political intricacies has latched itself on to you, Jaime, for I was about to give up on that hope, but you’ve proven me otherwise. Gods be good, it remains like that.” Tyrion almost laughed at the offended look on his brother’s face. “However, it’s far too early for you to question _me_ on political savvy.” 

“Father, if I may be so bold, why have you arranged such an unusual marriage for Jaime? As dull as he might be,” Another offended look. Rattling Jaime was so easy. “even a sundial is right twice a day at least, and I find myself agreeing with him.” 

Father narrowed his eyes, vexation dancing in them. “I forgot how impudent the both of you can be when on the same side.” He scuffled around and then sat down on his grand chair again, resting his elbows on top of his desk and intertwining his fingers before his face. “Since you two are so keen on knowing, let me educate you then. Mayhaps you can then start appreciating the efforts I go through to keep this family where it belongs; at the top of Westeros.” Father raised a finger and held it at Myrcella. “To which House does your niece belong to?” 

“House Durrandon of Storm’s End.” Tyrion replied. Certainly, Father was aware of that himself? 

“And who currently rules House Durrandon and its lands?” 

“Our dear nephew Joffrey.” Jaime answered.  

“Does he now?”  

Tyrion frowned thoughtfully. “Well, Robert decided to kick the bucket quite early, and since Joffrey is his eldest son…”  

“A succession is not a guarantee to a reign, and Joffrey’s ascension to his father’s throne was as tumultuous as one would expect from a king such as he. That boy has no love from his bannermen whatsoever and his ability to rule is questionable at best. On top of all that, he has no alliance with another kingdom to help him keep his throne.”  

Tyrion chuckled. That was also an undisputed certainty. Joffrey was, for the lack of better words, a lackwit and a cunt. Beating puppies to death, throwing tantrums like a raving strumpet, sneering and condescending on a perpetual base, and not a single shred of knowledge about the basest of things. Whoever raised that hellspawn most assuredly deserved a place in the Seven Hells. It only took one day for Tyrion to dislike his nephew. One day. That was noteworthy, especially since Tyrion can brook a lot from people. Cersei most oft tried his patience, and this son of hers was worse tenfold. 

Father continued. “Prince Stannis and Prince Renly made their moves. A fortnight ago, word reached Casterly Rock that both Durrandon brothers have wed a daughter of the Reach. They planned to raise an army to dethrone Joffrey. The youngest married Delena Florent, and the eldest Lynesse Hightower, both daughters of powerful vassals to the Gardeners. Alone, these two could’ve raised an army of ten thousand men strong. And that’s without mentioning the various Storm lords supporting the Durrandon brothers. Were it not for my intervention, Prince Renly would’ve married Margaery himself. The Reach stood poised to declare a war of succession on the Stormlands. With this marriage agreement I brokered, the Durrandon plot and a potential war were snuffed in their cribs.” 

“It seems to me you only advocated for your own interest.” Tyrion mused, pouring himself some wine. 

“My interest and the interest of House Lannister are _one_ and the _same._ If the Reach declared war on Joffrey, I would have raised my own banners in his defence. Highgarden would have never risked a war with two kingdoms on both fronts. The Gardeners wanted to make its daughter a queen, so I gave them exactly that. Which one would be preferable? A war for a crown they hardly had any chance of winning, or a peaceful union in marriage between the two greatest kingdoms in the south?” 

“There was no need for _me_ to marry the Gardener princess, though. Why didn’t you arrange it between your grandson and her? They are of a closer age and she would’ve still been a queen.” Jaime insisted. 

“Because he is not a _Lannister_. Joffrey is my grandson, but his blood is that of a Durrandon first and foremost. The Reach is an influential kingdom, I daresay as resourceful as us. Why would I give that boy a girl so valuable if I could have her for my own son? Joffrey is not my concern, but his kingdom is, to an extent. I will not coddle that boy and reward his stupidity with a highbred spouse. Let his mother for once be of use to him, the gods know how much she bungled raising that boy. I did my part as grandfather, but more, the Durrandons will not receive.” 

“And was dear Joffrey not betrothed already?” Tyrion pointed out.  

Father’s jaws ground together at the reminder. “ _Was_ is the keyword. His bride, a Stark girl of all people, spurned him by escaping the castle and disappeared into thin air. It’s a miracle that Ned Stark has not yet called his banners and marched south to Storm’s End to demand the whereabouts of his daughter.”  

Father shook his head, frustrated, his fingers going to his temples and rubbing them. His eyes spoke of cold fury, chilly as the winds up north. “Cersei has botched something as simple as raising a child. That woman always thought she was the sharpest blade in the armoury. Good thing she was born a woman, for if she was a son of mine, the Night’s Watch would have had its first Lannister brother taking the black in a hundred years. Her inability to keep that boy of hers on a leash has brought nothing but madness and stupidity to the Stormlands. And the incident between Gregor Clegane and Prince Lewyn Martell? Madness and stupidity, I tell you. I might as well just invade the Stormlands myself and clean up that mess they call a kingdom. The Gardeners were more than eager to wed their daughter to Jaime; the Stormlands was on the brink of a civil war, and who would wish to have their daughter prone to a potential uprising? The only thing that keeps the Storm lords from raising their banners in revolt is Joffrey’s ties to me.”  

It was not oft when Father showed a bit of temper, Seven Hells, it was as frequent as a stable season change, and even when he did, there never was a voice raised or glass pieces strewed. Tantrums were a combination of thrown glasswork and toppled furniture, or at the very least, a throttled servant. But not Father’s.  

His moments of anger were truly terrifying, for Tywin Lannister’s anger was a cold and tempered sword, forged and perfected for the most ideal moment to strike. One only had to take a leaf out of Father’s history, and you would know. The Reyne-Tarbeck rebellion ended in disaster when they incited his wrath.  

Nothing was as dangerous as channelled fury. Tyrion, at that moment, realized how fortunate Cersei was for being a Lannister. Were she anyone else, Father would have never lived down her inability.  

Eventually, Father settled with a sigh. “Within a moon’s turn, the Princess Margaery will arrive at Casterly Rock to fulfil the royal marriage between our two kingdoms. Preparations are already being taken for a grand wedding to be hosted.” Jaime looked ready to protest again, but Father continued “I will hear no more about it! Save your breath, Jaime, petulance doesn’t suit you at your age.” He placed a period to the affairs concerning the Gardeners with that cold and unyielding tone, and Jaime sighed defeatedly, retreating into himself and glowering at a corner of the room. “Now, onto further topics.”  

“We’re not done yet? If you ask me, the night has bee–” Tyrion was about to jest, but a sharp tongue cut him off. 

“Indeed, we are not _done_ yet.” Father bit, and the joking spirit all but sizzled out of Tyrion, whose lips thinned into a firm line. “If that was all there was to it, would I have bothered interrupting your nocturnal trysts to have you stand before me, reeking of wine and…?” Father shook his head derisively. Tyrion hummed; Father had a point. “You have a part to play in our moves as well, so you can finally be of use to our House, instead of whoring your way into an early grave.” 

Tyrion much preferred that to be the way to greet the Stranger one day. 

“As for you and what you will do. On the morrow, you and Myrcella will ride for the Stormlands to treat with your sister.” Tyrion was about to object, but the hard look on Father’s face made his throat clog up. “Spare me your complaints, I’m perfectly aware of the disdain between you and Cersei. You will not remain there for long.”  

“By the Maiden’s teats, what a relief, Father. You have my sincerest gratitude. I’ll happily go and escort my dear niece back to her mother, but I can’t help but ask, is it really necessary for me to be her guide? Surely, two dozen knights can do the job better than I? And what about sweet Tommen? Is he to remain here, away from his sweet sister?” 

“Yes, Tommen is to remain with me, his wardship still falls under my authority, and I still am not yet through with raising him into a proper boy. Joffrey is enough of a nuisance, I will not suffer another incompetent grandson. As for Myrcella, you are not bringing her back to her mother.” 

“Then…where am I to bring her?” Tyrion queried, bringing his cup to his mouth. Myrcella now also perked up, curious. 

“To the imperial court of New Valyria.”  

Tyrion spluttered, the wine almost catching in his throat. “E-excuse me? What will we do there?” 

Father lifted the unsealed missive with the imperial seal. “This is a formal invitation to court. Myrcella and you will sail for Essos and represent House Lannister in the upcoming nameday of Aegon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone. There, it will be your task to attract their attention and even negotiate a potential betrothal between he and Myrcella.” 

“Me? Marrying the future Holy Valyrian Emperor, grandfather?” Myrcella whispered, awestruck.  

“It’s only fitting for a granddaughter of House Lannister and a distant scion of the dragonlords.” Father said. “After all, Orys Durrandon’s blood runs through your veins as Argella’s descendant. The Targaryens are obsessed with purity of their lineage. Emperor Rhaegar will at the very least consider the proposal.” 

Tyrion frowned, a thought striking him. “Targaryens are incestuous by nature, and as far as I know, Emperor Rhaegar has two sons and a daughter, and even a younger sister. Isn’t it more apparent that he’ll consider wedding his son within the family?”  

“Ah yes,” Father’s face drew back in a grimace, pinched in disgust. “the Targaryen Exceptionalism. Indeed, they are a family of appalling customs, marrying brothers to sisters for generations and keeping the dynasty as ‘pure’ as possible. To think themselves above the laws of men and gods. Perversion, all of it.” The aversion was thick in his voice. “Those days are numbered, however. Rhaegar’s Rebellion has left deep scars on the Empire, and its stability has been brought into question. He is in desperate need of allies, and plans to gain them through marriages. Nyessos Vhassar has brought to my attention the potential families that stand to gain from the upcoming nameday of the crown prince. All five of them are of clear Valyrian lineage, and all five of them are wealthy and powerful families in their own rights. None of them, however, rival us. We bring to the table a daughter of Valyrian blood, distant as it may be, and a great deal of support through coin. Emperor Rhaegar would be a fool not to at least see the value of this proposal.”  

Father brought a parchment of paper out of his desk and started writing. “You will ride for Storm’s End at first light and arrive within three weeks. Rest for the night before the ship takes you to Pentos, where you will then spend a fortnight on the road to New Valyria.”  

With a perfunctory stab of his quill, Father finished whatever he was scribbling, gestured for Myrcella, and handed the letter over to her. “At Storm’s End, pass this letter to your mother. Inept she may be, but she’ll not dare bodge the demands in that letter.”  

Tyrion nodded, not much interest beyond the words that Father spared regarding Cersei. The tone behind them sounded rather ominous. Good, she could use some chastising. 

Father swayed his hand. “That is all, you’re all dismissed.” 

Jaime was the first to step away and loudly swung open the door. He marched away with a purpose, and Tyrion exchanged a look with Myrcella, who looked unsure what to do. They too exited the king’s solar soon after Jaime all but stampeded off. 

“Close the door, my dear, and then be on your way. We have a big day ahead of us on the morrow, and you mustn’t tire your pretty eyes with lack of sleep.”  

Myrcella smiled softly. “I will, sweet nuncle. Please, find Uncle Jaime and try to appease his heart for me. I’ve heard a great many good things about Princess Margaery. She will be a lovely wife to him, I‘m sure.” 

“I’m in no need to be convinced of that, little Myrcella. I’ve seen them once, the merry kings of the Reach, when tensions across the kingdoms weren’t so high and kings still held some amiability amongst themselves. The Gardeners have always been pretty lads and lasses, eager to bed their way to victory in place of waging war. ‘Happy Gardeners, marry!’ should be their words, instead of that sappy ‘Growing strong’ nonsense. Jaime will come around.” Tyrion scratched his cheek. “He’ll have to, if he doesn’t want me to declare him insane, at least.” 

Tyrion had little patience to deal with his brother’s ruffled feathers, however. To Tyrion, Jaime did not even have grounds to complain; a Gardener was to be his bride, for the gods’ sake! A young and supple girl, whose beauty was sung by bards and minstrels all across the south. At the succulent age of ten-and-six. Gods, Tyrion already felt a bulge in his breeches just imagining how tight she would be.  

 _Curse you, Jaime, you can’t even appreciate a gift from the Seven!_  

Tyrion grouched, bad-tempered when thinking of what was ahead of him. Tomorrow, he was to ride out towards the Stormlands, towards his despicable tart-spitting sister Cersei, and her insufferable cunt of a son.  

Tyrion was already looking forward to the many dwarf jokes and imp sneers from that brat. If only he was no king. If he was no king, Tyrion would have pulled off the cruellest of jests on Joffrey to teach him a thing or two about humility. 

Well, he could teach Joffrey anyhow, though not through jests. Maybe a couple of slaps could instil some sense into that sadistic arse. Tyrion wondered if Robert Durrandon ever slapped that boy upside the head. If Robert had, he either did not do it hard and often enough, or he once smacked his son so firmly, the boy suffered from mental atrophy.  

Tyrion was not sure what amused him more.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little dreams that clear the sight, and a faithful meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did say, I'd post this chapter a lot later... but then I figured, screw it, just post it. I would be annoyed as well with writers who've written in advance, but don't upload yet, just for...reasons. So here it is. From here, updates will be slow, because I've yet to write down the solid chapters themselves. They all got a clear outline, and some don't, but then again, changes do happen, a lot. Patience is a virtue, so you just have to suck it up.
> 
> How do I remove the damn notes that keep coming back from chapter 1!?

 

**The Titan of Braavos**

**Braavos, as opposed to the other cities, was no colony nurtured by the hand of Valyria. It was a colony that fled from it. The Secret City was found by slaves who broke free from their bondages and ensconced in a lagoon covered by pine trees, mists and hills, away from the eyes of the Freehold for centuries. As Valyria fell in the Doom, Braavos uncloaked itself from a secret existence, relieved to see the slavers fall to their rightful demise. But it was short-lived.**

**With the War of Restoration coming to their doors, Braavos feared for its existence. They loathed subjugation more fiercely than the Dothraki hated the waters which their horses refused to drink. As they witnessed the fall of city after city, giving up their independence to the Targaryens, the Braavosi resolved with determination to not allow their fate to be the same.**

**Whilst it did shed the cloak of ostensible non-existence, Braavos was still a city difficult to reach without proper knowledge, with the wall of hills around the periphery blocking an army to march upon it and the ridged isles around the lagoon a barrier for fleets to enter. It was a formidable stronghold. Aegon did have dragons, however, but they could only serve their master if they knew who or what to burn down. The mist was a partial ally to Braavos.**

**Unlike the daughters of Valyria, which consistently waged war on one another for supremacy, Braavos was untouched by the scourge it brought with it. It was a healthy, rich and robust city, and more than willing to fight for its independence.**

**On a clear and crisp day, Aegon and his sister-wives took to the sky from the hills of Andalos and soared around Northern Essos, trying to find a glimpse of the Secret City. As a reward for their searches, they eventually came upon on one of the Nine Wonders Made by Man. The Titan of Braavos. In its tallness, it glared at them in all its bronze and stony magnificence. The dragons shrieked at it, challenging its supremacy. Its answer was a great bolt of steel piercing Vhagar’s eye.**

**Visenya plummeted down whilst her dragon’s life essence left a trail of black in the air, her body still strapped to her mount’s back, and reached her demise in the frothing waters. Twenty four moons, Aegon mourned for his stern but passionate sister-wife, setting ablaze any forest or grass sea he came upon in a fit of rage, and the years were named the Dragon’s Wroth for it. It was only until his beloved sister Rhaenys gave birth to their son, Aenys, and the efforts of his staunch friend Orys Baratheon, did his despair finally crack.**

**The campaign against Braavos already was on its third year of length. Aegon did not let Balerion nor Meraxas take flight, in fear of a repeat, and instead commanded a grand fleet of seven hundred dromonds to scour the gulfs of the murky Shivering Sea. Yet again, they were brought before the aggrandized protector of the city.**

**Aegon beleaguered the city for another three hundred days, cut off its tethers to the world and tried to starve Braavos to death, but the attempt was futile. Aegon refused his fleet to turn sail and lay anchor at a port, adamant to make the Braavosi suffer for the death of Visenya. But the Braavosi were resilient. Through a secret agreement discovered decades later, Lorath had kept Braavos supplied during the siege. Aegon’s sailors suffered from a plague of scurvy picked up on sea, their time stretched too long on the waters without proper supplies. The siege seemed to be on its last legs. At the advice of his friend Orys Baratheon, Aegon the Restorer ordered the retreat of his fleet, seemingly humbled and defeated. He left a single ship with a giant wooden statue behind, for reason only known to him. The statue was built in the shape of the Titan of Braavos.**

**The Braavosi, inebriated on the taste of triumph, dragged the ship and its statue inside, taking it as a spoils of war. The following night, the city celebrated its victory well into the late hour as many a citizen and soldier lay sprawled across the street, too deep in their cups to even lift a finger.**

**That was when the statue started to unfold. Within it, a small group of soldiers opened a hatch and poured out, Orys Baratheon leading them, and took control of the Arsenal. The Titan soon fell in their hands as well. Too drunk to put up a fight, the Braavosi guards standing vigil over the essential chokepoint were massacred and Aegon’s men allowed entry for the armada to enter, who in the shade of night had returned.**

**Orys had advised Aegon to beguile Braavos and feign a retreat, leave behind a token of respect, and then, when no one would expect, strike under the lights of the moon. It was an ingenious idea.**

**As the dust settled, Aegon had control of a defeated Braavos. Despite his grievances, Aegon did not sack the city in retribution for Visenya’s death. He knew the worth of this city, both its apparent and underlying value. On the final day of occupation, The Sealord Maerrio Dynen was brought in chains to the Emperor to hear his verdict. It was Maerrio’s decision to defy Aegon, and as such, his defiance led to Visenya’s death. At least, Aegon wished to enact retribution on this man. He was to face the consequences of this defeat. His verdict was death by dragonfire.**

**When normalcy started to return to the city and the imperial forces took up their posts, an envoy of the Iron Bank came before the Emperor, and presented to him the return of a precious artefact. Visenya’s Dark Sister. Washed ashore, it then fell in the hands of a fortunate retriever, who did not realise its actual worth, and sold the sword for a price worthy of keeping his belly, and his family’s belly, full for a couple of months.**

**As a token of good will, the Iron Bank was willing to return it, if Aegon allowed them full autonomy on the future imperial endeavours as the central bank. Not fully grasping the importance, and overcome with emotions, Aegon more than willingly accepted, unwittingly helping create a very powerful rival to the imperial throne.**

**Thus, the existence of the Imperial Bank of New Valyria came about.**

**The most influential institution in the Holy Valyrian Empire.**

* * *

**~Once, Sansa thought beauty was everything, because she was told as such by many opinions. Lords all over the North and Riverlands, whenever they came for her nameday, or Father’s, or any of her family’s, always had the same compliment ready on their tongue for her; the Princess Sansa always looks so radiant. The Princess Sansa always looks so beautiful. So ladylike. So desirable. So perfect. And she took them in stride.**

**Each of their flatteries was another stone added to the tall tower that was her conceit. Its tip came to scrape the sky one day. And then, when she was to wed a man, Sansa expected nothing less but to be treated like a queen. Rightfully so, but when not given what you expect, the truth cuts deeper than any sword. And her truth had cut deep. Sansa’s tower had crumpled and left a pile of brittle confidence in its wake. Joffrey had shown Sansa how thick armour of beauty really was. How useful it was against the metal fists and sword flats of cruelty. Mother said a lady’s armour were courtesies. But courtesies never saved her from the pains either.~**

* * *

**VALYRIA**

**THE YOUNG PRINCE**

He told himself to be brave. Boys of six could be brave. Jon told himself that over and over again, his mantra sounding like the chants of the red priests, who muttered their prayers with clenched eyes, trembling hands and a quivering pout, lost in their passion of prayer. Perhaps if he did the same, Jon would find a small bit of peace too.

His wooden wolf toy, covered in fading white paint and studded rubies, was clutched in his hand with an iron grip.

_Princes are not supposed to feel fright._

The dark, maze-like halls of the palace held no monsters in their shades. Jon was brave. He was brave. He was very brave. He could not allow the darkness to creep inside him and make him fear even the smallest shift of shadows. Father would frown disapprovingly upon him and Jon would never hear the end of it from Egg. Rhae would force him to face his fears and Dany would never leave his side again and pamper him like he was a suckling babe. He was a Prince of the Blood, a son of Old Valyria and the First Men, like _she_ always reminded him. They had to be brave. Jon did not want be seen as a sniffling child. But, he could only be brave for so long. He needed to find _her_. With her, Jon would be save, Jon would be warm. The monsters of his night terrors would not follow him into her arms.

He rounded a corner, and in his frantic haste, the marches of the Blackguards went unnoticed to his ears until the young boy collided painfully with their greaves. Startled, Jon stumbled back onto the ground, yelping in pain.

“Jon?”

He had found her, at last.

“Mother…” Jon sniffled, rubbing his shins.

Mother crouched, taking his face in her hands, her bright gown pooling beneath her in a pond of silk, and she a great goddess protector emerging from it. “Why are you wandering the unlit halls at this hour, my sweetling?”

Jon demurred, a little abashed. “I–I had…” Mother cooed, spurring him on, her thumbs caressing his cheeks and her lips pulled into a smile so tender, Jon thought he was lying on a bed of clouds. It made him brave to admit his shame. “I had a nightmare, Mother…”

“Oh, my sweet boy.” Mother leaned forward and pressed her lips against his forehead in a loving kiss. A warm fuzzy feeling latched itself on to Jon’s heart. Mother then lifted Jon up and poised him on her hip. “Would you like to be with Mother for a while?” She smiled, her eyes glimmering. They held a kindness only Mother could give. Already, the fear from earlier was ebbing away, but Jon wanted to bask in Mother’s affection a little while longer.

She had so little time these days. Offtimes, Jon failed to find Mother, for she was too preoccupied with Father in matters he had no knowledge of or were too hard for him to make sense of. And both Father and Mother always looked weary these days. They needed rest said the court physician once. Rest from the world around them. Jon tried to keep Mother and Father pleased and steer clear from them. Father was not so difficult, for he heeded the words of their physician much the same as he did the singings of the birds in their gardens. Appreciated, but wholly ignored. And Father scared him from time to time with his cold eyes. Mother, she was different. Jon could not help but feel a little selfish and still search out Mother’s affection. He could not be away from her for too long. His heart ached if he did. To be away from Mother was something very frightening. He did not wish to be frightened constantly.

Jon he nodded, and Mother’s smile widened in return. She ordered the Blackguards to lead the way towards her private chambers.

Soon, Jon was in Mother’s featherbed, both of them tucked away in thin bedlinen, his head placed against her collarbone as one of her hands brushed along the coils of his brown hair, tucking at them with silent affection. He in turn took a stray lock and wrapped Mother’s hair, so much like his own, around his finger and played with it for a bit.

“Do you wish to speak about your nightmare, Jon?”

He rubbed his cheek against her skin, and Mother acquiesced with a hum, letting the matter drop. Jon was grateful for that. He did not have the will to explain his nightmare. If he did, they could very well crawl back.

Her hands still carded through his ringlets, rubbing his scalp with her long fingers, and Mother started a low lullaby that made his eyes droopy. It brought an idea to Jon’s mind.

“Mother, could you sing me a song?”

Mother’s lips curved upwards. “Of course, my love. Which song would you like for Mother to sing?”

His mind already rested on his favourite song; a tale about the great dwarven kingdom of the Bone Mountains.

“Could you sing me the Song of Noralgoud?”

Mother chuckled knowingly, and Jon grinned a little. She already suspected him asking for Noralgoud’s Song, and kissed the crown of his head. It was the song that usually lulled him to sleep. Mother knew, because it was not the first time Jon asked her for this. She prepared her voice by humming it a little, and then starting singing.

_The old small king that sneered and frowned._

_Feasted great and plenty when he was crowned._

_A sea of silver and gold upon his floor._

_Riches and fortunes seen like never before._

Mother’s voice was always as sweet a melody as apples dipped in gilded honey to Jon’s ears, oh so full of love and life, a fount of contentment and peace, but when she started to sing, it was as if the world itself started to colour more vividly. It felt like seeing the sun rise over the lands and bath any and all in a warm blanket. Jon could listen to Mother’s singing voice for eternity if it was possible.

_Noralgoud, Noralgoud._

_Your greed and thirst has brought the drought._

_Noralgoud, Noralgoud._

_Your greed and thirst has brought the drought._

The Song of Noralgoud was Jon’s dearest of all songs, for it sang about a greedy king under a lonely mountain, about his great riches stored in even greater halls. Of the tragedy that befell over them, brought about by the cruelties and avarice of a great darkness. And how his noble son restored his tarnished name.

_His gold was aplenty, still his greed was older._

_His halls grew dark and his eyes grew even colder._

_And thus, great Dracas, forever evil, started to grow bolder._

_Noralgoud, Noralgoud._

_Your greed and thirst has brought the drought_

_Noralgoud, Noralgoud._

_Your greed and thirst has brought the drought._

Jon closed his eyes and he could imagine a great shadow descend from the heavens, raining fire upon the people of the great mountain. Jon could see the displaced and lost folk roaming the lands, searching for a safe haven whilst fleeing from a darkness that settled itself over their lands, lamenting in despair and at their wit’s end. He once cried for them, when he was even younger still.

The first time the haunting tones were sung to him, Jon cried and shivered a little. It sounded nought of any happiness or adventure like the songs they sung about Dunc and Egg, or the other cheerful songs. Only a great dark emptiness. But Mother never disappointed Jon. She sung further and brought with her voice the dream of hope.

_His sons, once loyal and valiant in their roar._

_Lived amongst the greed of their father no more._

_All, except one, had fallen to the likes of him._

_Young Homnoud remained, and refused to bend to his whim._

Jon found himself running, and around him the darkness was being eaten away, replaced by lush foliage of saffron and auburn leaves on the ground, streaming rivers, ivy walls and deciduous forests with thick groves about. The sound of sparrows and lorries twittering, whilst little hares and young stags hopped over branches to escape the clutches of someone’s eyes. Jon gave up the run, came across a tree stump, and then sat down on it to wonder upon a great expanse of illuminatingly blue water. He closed his eyes fully now, and again, a darkness engulfed him, but Jon was not afraid of what was lurking there. Sleep was no more frightening. Sleep now came as a friend, heralded by his mother’s appeasing voice.

_He slew the drake with his great axe._

_As his heart had that what his father lacks._

_For it is not gold and gems that brings a white dove._

_It is kindness and honour that beckons for love._

* * *

**VOLANTIS**

**JON II**

 

“Your Highness?”

Jon’s eyes fluttered, and his senses returned to the world. Thoros had his warm hand planted on his shoulder, and his shaking had roused him from his lingering in the past. They cantered side by side along the stone-paved road, with the legion behind and the baggage train in front. The wounded were given precedence during the march back home. When Jon’s legion would enter through the gates of Volantis, he would decree a formal dismissal of the legion and order them on reserve to regain strength and rest. Upon further duty, Jon would see to the amount of salary they were rightfully due.

“What is it, Thoros?” Jon questioned, holding the reins of his gelding with more pressure. Jon had traded his dark destrier for this russet creature, who was far more amiable to his tugs. Jon had no need of a warhorse anymore, for there was no battle to fight at present. He had set free the beast in one of the grass seas south of Qohor as they marched back. Perhaps one day, Jon would come to regret the decision. Dothraki were still plenty abound, and valued strong horses like they were a mine of gold. The horse did gallop away with a blithesome sprint, and Jon then found his guilt vanish. To see that creature so joyful made him consider the decision sound.

“A missive was sent for you, by Triarch Belicho Staegone. At the gates, we’ll be escorted to the Triarch’s Palace by a cohort of Unsullied. According to the content of this missive, we are to stay for three days in Volantis, and by then, a small convoy will be ready to bring us to the capital.”

Jon nodded distantly. The sound of a thousand boots marching in step echoed in the hollows of his skull and Jon heard it more prominently than Thoros and his words. He found peace in their steady pace, something that was about to be disturbed the moment he would enter Volantis.

Aegon’s Wall was a few hundred leagues behind them now. Jon and the legion were marching over one of the newly paved roads leading to Volantis, financed by imperial decree during the reign of Emperor Daeron II. Several carts were pushed the same way, some filled with apples, others with wooden balks or culled cattle; traders eager to barter their baggage for a coin or two. Surely, they were glad to have such roads under their feet to travel fast across.  

In the distance, Jon saw a pair of beige hills, with a tower atop of them both. Bronn once described them, an eon ago, like a pair of fleshy teats with their buds erected when they rode out five years ago. Sandor Clegane grouched his agreement after he took a swing of his wineskin. Right from that moment, Jon knew Sandor and Bronn would become thick as thieves. They looked like a crooked example of adventurers. One a spindly jester quick with his japes and quicker with his blades, always a dark joke on his tongue, and the other a growling hulk with a greatsword longer than Jon himself, with eyes that could melt steel bars with their intensity.

Beyond the hills, was the port city built. Jon did not look forward to the smell of flowers, fish and elephant dung thrown together, and he certainly did not look forward to the hot and heavy air in the city. The Great Grass Sea up north-east was much cooler with its frequent breezes and calmer weather. Volantis was sometimes plagued by heavy rainfall and dense humidity. Jon had disliked Volantis from bygone days when he first treaded into the city. The heat that day made him almost drown in his own sweat. Jalabhar once shared his stories that compared to the Summer Isles down south, the heat of Volantis was cold as winter’s gusts, not even holding a candle to the scalding winds down the Summer Sea. And of course, Bronn had to make a jape or two about it when he laughed it made sense to him now why Jalabhar looked so much like he was a piece of charred flesh baked too long in the flames. Even Jon had to stifle a snort at the tawdry joke.

With a population of a million citizens, Volantis was like an anthill, all its dwellers running over each other with clear purpose in mind, not at all losing themselves in the crowds. It was a buzzling hub for trade and commerce, and many a trader of exotic origins had a booth set up here to sell its merchandize. New Valyria may be the seat of the Emperor, but it was Volantis that held the stream of coins in its grasp.

The road curved a little, leading upwards towards the hills. Jon noticed because his horse nickered a little in protest, not used to such toil on the muscles of its mellow hinds. Mayhaps, Jon should have kept his destrier after all.

And then, Volantis, in all its splendour, came in view. Jon took in the city as they made it down the road.

The mouth of the Rhoyne river cleaved the sprawling city clean from the middle, a watery sword cutting through without problem. Volantis occupied most of the hills and marshes around, as well as the entirety of the river delta. At one side was the city inside a city that contained the legacy of Old Valyria, their black walls higher than the ordinary city walls, where the nobles, the Old Blood they liked to call themselves, in memoriam of their glorious ancestry, resided. Old Volantis was a forbidden city within the city itself, and only the elite were allowed entry to that part.

Luxurious palaces, gilded temples, silver manors, and cellars and courtyards where wine flowed freely were wreathed around each other in the shape of a labyrinth, impossible to discern which mansion ended where and where the other began. It mattered little anyhow, for the nobles were tethered to one another like the lines of a spider’s web. It would not be so strange to claim that one could perhaps be kin to all the other denizens. Old Volantis was a pleached dynasty for all of them. It was here that the city was ruled from.

By contrast, the western side of the city was not so sophisticated. Here, the less than savoury sorts of people gathered round. People of low descent, gruff manner and rough edges. People told to do so by the words of the Volantene aristocrats. People like Bronn and Sandor, if one had to put a face to those words as an visual example. The slums built on the western side of the Rhoyne banks looked little more than brown square blocks, made of hardened mud and reinforced with wooden beams, nothing like the architectural wonders behind the Black Walls.

Labours here were thus most of the time associated with the simple guilds like the carpentry, masonry, smithy, the shipbuilding or other taxing labour that required a powerful physique. Here, the wharves mustered, the armies conscripted and the rich households recruited strong flesh to carry out the ambitions of the city. The western side was also the most populous, which came as no surprise. In these kinds of quarters, frivolities and debaucheries were a dragon a dozen, and all around participated in. People here bred with the same passion animals did. To the benefit of the city.

The Seventh Legion halted in its march without a warning and Jon pulled at the reins to bring his horse to a stop, startled at the sudden delay. Sandor growled a little at their sudden stop, and Jon could not help but wonder what was going on.

“What is this hold up about?” Jon questioned around with a frown already etched into his brows. His men shook their heads, the reason just as unclear to them.

Bronn shrugged after a swing of his bottle of ale. “Seems like the gates are down. Don’t know anything about the why of it though.”

The Summer Islander pitched in with a few words. “It looks like the city gates are closed for a reason, Your Highness. Perhaps the city got frightened by the Andal’s disgusting smell and mistook him for a disease-ridden Dothraki.” Jalabhar quipped.

Bronn chuckled loudly and rose to the challenge with a smirk. “Is this about earlier, peacock? Still sour about the charred flesh joke? C’mon now, if you wanna try and be witty, you gotta come with jokes better than that one. I’d bet even my dead whore of a mother would do better.”

Bronn got his answer in the form of a sneer. “You’d do well to remember that I am ten years your elder. Who knows, maybe it was I who sired you on your bitch mother when I reaved across the shores of Westeros years ago.”

“Really now? You were ten when you first fucked a woman, eh?”

“And nine when I first took a life with a blunt dagger.”

“We’re not counting cripples or sickly old men, y’know? Not much to be braggin’ about, if you ask me.”

Sandor neared their group, smugly amused for a change. “Just what I needed to see, a fight between a peacock and a whoreson.”

“There will be no fights. Keep the peace between you, or I will.” Jon’s reprimanded sternly with a fixed frown. Sometimes, he felt like the owner of bickering hounds instead of a prince surrounded by hardened warriors. His heart knew how very much it irked him to hear their squabbles.

Jon turned to his most trusted adviser Thoros. “See to it why the portcullis is lowered. Make haste, each minute out here is another minute of agony for the wounded.”

The red priest nodded. “At once, Your Highness.” Thoros gesticulated for a fair-haired young boy, a herald, barely older than Jon himself, to approach the gates and tell them of their presence. He did as he was bid and galloped forth, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.

“Open the gates in the name of the Emperor! His Highness, Jon of House Targaryen, the Prince of Summerhall, demands entry to the city!” He announced with a booming voice when halted before the iron bars. The soldiers up on the ramparts considered them for a moment, looking between the merlons and not budging from their positions. Only after they took note of the red dragon banner on a black field carried by a dracolifer, and Jon’s glimmering armour did they concur and the steel bars of the portcullis were lifted up.  

By the time the gate was fully opened, Jon and his retinue had galloped up whilst the legion poured into the city. Jon was quick to bark out orders towards the city guard to assist the legion in guiding the sick and wounded, and then go about the formal discharge for service.

A tall and gangly man stumbled up to them, stepping forward like a reed in the wind. His helmet was not yet even fastened as it dangled from side to side, and the man took an ungainly knee down. His hand was pressed against his heart in the formal way of greeting members of the higher echelon.

Jon beckoned him up with a wave and uttered a firm “Rise.” before the soldier came up to his full length.

“Y-your Highness, Volantis welcomes you within the city! Our sincerest apologies for having the gates down, but the recent mass of people rushing from the east made the T-Triarchs panic and order the city gates closed!”

He barely managed to speak in full sentences, all tong-tied and stuttering, tripping over his words as if they were great hurdles and he a frenzied soldier about to be run down by Dothraki screamers. His wormy lips and jittery eyes skidded around and Jon could already imagine the vision of a frightened chicken in his place. His pimpled face made a flimsy attempt to hide his nervous countenance, and Jon was mildly exasperated that this kind of man was in command of a city guard the likes of Volantis. The first daughter of Old Valyria certainly did not place much value in capable captains, it seemed.

“Mass of people? What are you speaking of, soldier?”

A trembling corrected his crooked helmet to the right. “Fugitives from the east, Your Highness. Little is known a-about the circumstances, b-bu–”

“That’ll be enough, soldier. Triarch Belicho will probably have more at hand. You’re dismissed.”

Jon ventured further into the city with Thoros at his right, Jalabhar at his left and Sandor and Bronn at his back. A host of slaves approached, burnt with the mark of a wheel on their cheeks, and Jon had to supress a vexed role of his eyes. They carried that ridiculous contraption called a palanquin. The slaves pleaded for him to step down from his horse and allow them to carry Jon towards the Triarch’s Palace, but he promptly refused them. He had no need for slaves to carry him. He was not a bloated frog with pudgy legs and flapping arm wings. Jon was perfectly capable of riding a horse and get to his destination without him feeling like he was a cripple, or a coddled babe.

He was aware of this queer custom of the Volantenese, where it was frowned upon that people of great birth travelled afoot or touched the ground entirely, lest they wished to become tainted in the eyes of the natives or nonnatives. Jon found it an utterly ridiculous notion.

_Probably the result of someone’s hubris. Or corpulence._

Even Uncle Viserys preferred a horse over that stuffy cot, fond as he was to enjoy the smallest bit of deference. Being carried around in some extravagant litter did wonders to someone’s ego. Jon once heard him say he wanted the sun to keep feeling envious of his radiance rather than conceal it from the sun’s glare. The first time Jon heard Viserys say that about himself, a chock of bread came stuck in his throat from sheer disbelief at such blatant self-adoration. His sister, Rhaenys, was far more sober and convincing in her opinion about open appearance.

_Father always says that a ruler must be able to look his people in the eye and hear their grievances. If you cannot, than perhaps you are unworthy of sitting the throne. Do you know the face of a coward, Jon? It is the back of his head as he runs away from battle. A ruler who does not wish to see his people up close and in the flesh, is running away from the battle just the same. And thus, it makes a coward of him too._

Rhaenys was always Father’s most devoted child. If only she was born a son. Rhaenys would have conquered the world if she was born as such.

People flocked to the streets and cheered Jon on as he cantered forward. Beggars, paupers and the like, all sorts of smallfolk came around, with nothing but dirty rags on their backs and plagued by shaggy beards and unkempt hairs. Their teeth were rotted yellow and their hands smeared brown. Yet, despite their barren appearances, the dwellers of Volantis managed a smile. For what, was beyond Jon.

Young boys were riding the shoulders of their fathers and waving around with their thinly fleshed arms, mothers and their little girls throwing petals towards the ground where Jon and his retinue trekked over, all whilst a grand line of Unsullied spearmen was arranged at the sides, keeping the masses at bay. The pageantry of it all bemused Jon, who just tersely nodded at whoever caught his eyes. He tried to put a smile on his face, but eventually chose not to. It felt a little unnatural for Jon. Uncouth even, in its own queer sense of way. Jon was never a smiler, that was Aegon. He was no charmer with winning smiles to wrap the masses around his finger, despite ignoring the current state of affairs. Jon was a soldier, yes, but not blind to what was around him. His heart felt a little heavy to see their condition.

The people looked worse for wear. Haggard and downtrodden, but still going about their work without a whimper. They looked like they had not eaten for weeks. Jon could even faintly count a small girl’s ribs. She could not be older than five namedays.

“What is this poverty, Thoros? Volantis is one the wealthiest cities in the known world, but nary a slave here looks like they’ve had a proper meal in a long time. As though famine robbed them of their last supper.”

Thoros shook his head, a wry smile worming its way to his lips. “My prince, I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He pointed to a small group of boys huddled together, shooting glances around them with their vulture eyes, suspicion as clear as day. “See those lads up there? With the gnarly arms, scrapped knees and dirty rags? Don’t look like much, eh?” Jon nodded in agreement. “Don’t let your eyes be deceived, Your Highness, I’ve seen some of those boys shredding grown men apart with nothing but butcher’s tools. Once, I saw boys like them ambush a fat nobleman and drag his screaming arse into the alley. Tore up the man’s limbs and scuttled off much like rabid dogs with a big fat bone between their teeth.”

The red priest started rummaging through his fiery garbs, hands fishing inside his pockets and soon, Thoros picked out a golden dragon. He tossed it into the crowd after appraising it for a moment, and a hundred or so bodies savagely ducked towards the dusty ground, eager to claim the win for themselves. Some of them even broke into a fistfight, and when it was about to get out of hand, the city guard approached with loud barks that forced them apart.

“You see, Your Highness, I’ve never been very pious in my life since I decided to join The Lord of Light’s faithful. Don’t know much about priestly duties either. I like women and wine too much for that, heh. What I do know, is how it feels to be poor. That’s the only piece of wisdom I can claim. To know how it feels to have my belly empty, and know how it hurts when its starts growling for some meat and ale. Sometimes, it felt as if it was trying to eat itself. So, when you come to that point, wallowing around won’t help you much. A man has to do what he has to do, so he can fight another day. When a poor man has to gorge up something to get back his strength, you don’t act all fussy about it. You eat what you _get_. Don’t pity the poor, Prince Jon, don’t pity them. Pity the fool that gets caught by a poor fellow. Desperation makes for a very strong morsel. And poverty for a ruthless mentor.”

Jon redirected his attention back forth, eyes on the road and mulling over the words. He was ashamed to admit, but Thoros and his words made him lightly shudder in his saddle. It made him consider the people with renewed caution.

The Long Bridge drew near as the entourage trudged forth. Some moments ago, the Temple of the Lord of Light had passed them, and Thoros threw a couple of guarded looks towards the red temple and the pedestrians around, a little wary of other priests of equally crimson garbs glancing up at him, their cowls hooding away their piercing eyes. Jon knew it came as no barb to his companion the way their eyes seemed to judge him for the little flask of wine on the side of his saddle, but one always had to be on guard when surrounded by fanatic zealots. Religion could make a follower very unhinged. 

Traders and peddlers earned their bread here and on the Long Bridge, where the city dwellers of all standings blended together. The red temple was a haven for many a person, and offered salvation if one was willing to perform any task the High Priest deemed fit.

Litters were carried around the central plaza, sometimes a hand pushing away the curtain to survey around and determine where they were, their palanquin followed closely by a badge of guards. It was easy to distinguish the low aristocrats, with their relatively petty carts made of common silks, and the highborn nobles. Their palanquins were a walking fortune. Some were coloured with the priciest damask and samite, enough to last three families for a couple of seasons. The blatant display of wealth and the great divide that came along with it made Jon purse his lips grimly.

_The things wealth can do to a person._

At last, the Black Walls of Old Volantis greeted Jon, tall, imposing and casting a shadow darker than the black crystalline of their walls over him and his companions. The great monolithic barrier between the scions of Old Valyria and the commoners was a sight to see. Its skin shone even more than the night’s sky full of twinkling stars. Even the Ice Dragon’s azure eye was but a faint blimp.

“Rumour has it that this wall is thick enough to allow six chariots to right abreast. Mother always spoke highly about this wall. It reminded her of another one, back in the North.” Jon said, and Thoros nodded.

“The Black Walls are said to be impenetrable. Stone so strong, even Valyrian steel would bounce right off its shield. His Imperial Grace sits upon a seat made of such stone. What a seat it must be to sit upon; a throne more commanding than steel and more coveted than gold.”

The Black Wall was made of a mythical mineral. The maesters from the west had it named as dragonglass whilst the Valyrians of yore called it frozen fire in their tongue. Jon knew it under a much better, more commonly known moniker, for it had a nexus to the one thing the Empire was held together with.

_Obsidian. Aegon forged his throne and that of his descendants with Balerion’s breath the day New Valyria’s last stone was placed. From Dragonstone, he brought black stone hewn so cleanly, it shimmered like dark glass and cut truer than any steel. I have seen it when I was but a boy, offtimes wondering how it would feel to sit that forsaken black chair Father seemed to be nailed upon. Father once told me, in his rare indulges to teach his sons a virtue or two, that the Restorer wanted a throne reminding him of the burdens of a ruler. A seat where no Emperor could sit at ease. The throne is hard to the touch and cold as ice, Father always woefully mused. It is a strange chair, doing even stranger things to its incumbent. I truly fear what it could do to a man such as Aegon._

“Hail, Prince Jon! Old Volantis greets the son of Rhaegar I, Holy Valyrian Emperor!”

Before the gates stood a line of finely swathed artisans, and in the middle an elderly priest with a thin body covered in white garbs. He was clean-shaven and festooned with numerous tattoos of writhing flames, painting his skin red and bright. He had no lips and his beady eyes were sunken deep into their sockets, with the flaming tattoos making it even more difficult to get a better look at them.

Jon visibly stiffened at seeing him, for he knew who this man was.

The High Priest of R’hllor’s faithful.

Benerro was more powerful than the Triarchs combined. Four out of every five inhabitant in Volantis was a follower of the Lord of Light. If the High Priest so wished, Benerro could unleash the Fiery Hand upon the city and declare it his own domain, with himself as the Lord’s representative on the world. Luckily, he did not wish so. Zealotry had not eroded his rationale, yet anyway.

“Prince Jon, the Lord of Light’s peace be upon you. Welcome to Old Volantis.” Benerro greeted formally, bowing his head ever so slightly.

Despite the fragility Benerro had about himself, the timbre of his voice carried high and resolute. No word was said out of place, and not a single tone of his speeches felt droning. His brevity was perfected, his tongue a blade polished by the best whetstone in the Empire. There was always an echo to his voice that made it sound as though it was divine.

After his ascension as High Priest of the Faith of R’hllor, the amount of conversions had grown, disturbingly so. There was a certain charisma to his voice that pulled at the ears of many people. A man had no need to be strong bodied, if he was golden mouthed like Benerro.

Jon, as per tradition, kissed the offered hand of the High Priest curtly. “Your Eminence, the Lord of Light’s peace be upon you as well.”

Pleased, Benerro stepped aside and his slave soldiers gathered around him in an instant, cloaking the patriarch of the Empire’s most widespread faith in a shield of flesh.

The gates opened with a heavy groan after His Eminence had left for his sacrosanct duties. The exchange between himself and the High Priest was a mere formality. A gesture of subservience towards the Faith of R’hllor. To remind the Empire and its people that no longer, the imperial family’s word was absolute. That divinity no longer had a place in their blood.

The gates to Old Volantis only opened a handful of times during the year. When it did, it was usually alongside a great deal of exaggerated pompous. This time, it was done so with little fanfare fortunately.

Jon threw a side-glance over his shoulders. “Three days. Your boon is your own to spend. Far be it of me and presume on what you’re going to spend it. Be it women, wine or other sports. Enjoy your respite, but return with your life and limb, if you please.” His retinue was about to disperse, but Jon had one small thing to add. “But Bronn, you’re forbidden to buy another one of those monkeys. The last one threw around his dung too often to be considered bonny.”

A bellyful of laughter escaped Bronn. “Seven Hells! I loved that monkey, like he was my own son! T’was a shame he winded up on my plate when supplies were a little scarce. Oh well, least he saved my sorry arse from hunger.” He kept commenting merrily to Jalabhar how he keenly remembered the little primate that had terrorized the Seventh Imperial Legion for several moonturns. The Summer Islander was not so excited, perhaps even slighted at the memory, for it was he that suffered some of the monkey’s antics more so than Jalabhar wished before that little demon ape got cut up and served as a meal of last resort.

Sandor gave a parting nod at his discharge and rode off, who knows where to. He probably got too anxious being around the followers of R’hllor, or itched to cut off some heads, depending on who was asking. Fire always made him flounder in unease, despite his hulking frame, which was big enough to scare off most people. Jon was certain it had to do something with that seared mug of his. Once, Jon felt the tuck at his curiosity too strong and asked the sulking man on one of their campaigns how his burn mark came to pass. Sandor Clegane did not speak for another sennight. Never much the talker, he turned into a gravekeeper then, silent as his wards. All whilst his fighting prowess turned into that of a man possessed by a demon.

That left Thoros, but not for long, for he too turned after he parted with a salute and meandered his way towards the Temple of the Lord of Light.

A servant, one folded in better clothes than what was usually the norm for servants, signalled for Jon’s attention. “Your Highness, Belicho Staegone awaits your presence inside the Triarch’s Palace. Please, follow me this way.”

The gates groaned again in their movement, closing in with a thud that reverberated alongside the walls of the various manors around, an ominous welcome. The Triarch’s Palace was just up ahead, built upon the enclosed highlands. After the Temple, the Triarch’s Palace was the grandest building in Volantis. Three towers it had, each of them the private residence of a Triarch and each of them more grand than the previous one. The tallest spire was given to the most senior of the three. Here, Jon was to treat with Belicho and his family for a formal dinner.

He already felt a bit wary at the prospect.

For Triarch Belicho Staegone was a very…odd man, if he remembered rightly.

A man with strange quirks, and stranger tastes.

But then again, who in Volantis was actually _normal_?

* * *

The rasping of a blade across his skin was the only source of sound inside this incredulously luxurious privy. When Jon entered the palace’s bathrooms, he finally had gotten the time to take a glance into a mirror, and what he had witnessed in that piece of glass made him frown considerably. The sight of his shaggy beard, oily and dishevelled locks were not a sight for sore eyes, to put it mildly. Not to mention the way his body smell escaped the confines of his plates when he unclasped his armour and allowed his golden chainmail to slide of his body. It was rather disgraceful that he smelled like a walking corpse.

Months traveling on the road did not do him any good, at least where his looks and personal care were concerned. Frankly, he did not put much stock in it. It was a little queer for a man, during wartimes especially, to fuss about and preen himself so much he strutted around like a groomed peacock, but Jon was aware the importance of personal care. Whenever he could, he would stride up to a pond and wash himself from time to time, but that was the extent of it all. Mother drilled the need for grooming into his head, and so did Rhaenys and Daenerys. Jon found it vexing how many times Mother, his sister and his aunt fussed over him and the way he appeared in public. More often than not did Rhaenys scold him how paramount their place and appearance in society was.

_For R’hllor’s sake! You’re a Prince of the Blood, Jon, a scion of Old Valyria. The greatest legacy in the world flows through our veins. Princes and princesses of our blood cannot appear rugged and barbaric. New Valyria is the pinnacle of civilization, and we its highest citizens. The world watches us with envy and desire. We, as the imperial family, must represent total perfection and grace. There cannot be room for flaws. Not only do you represent yourself, but also Father and us, House Targaryen. Always remember your place in this world. You cannot be anything less than regal. The slightest sign of weakness, however ill-perceived, can be used against us. Now, go and wash yourself from all this mud and filth, your boots are staining the marble floors!_

Jon winced slightly as he glided his blade over a particularly difficult spot across his jaw, shaving off any scruffy hairs that proved to be too much like unwanted tares.

It took Jon a whilst, but the end result was a cropped beard with small specks of red here and there, nothing a little ointment could not help. Satisfied with his beard, Jon then turned to the tub which steamed with hot water. He had it filled earlier, and now Jon wanted nothing more than strip down of his breeches and smallclothes and submerge himself in the steaming waters.

As he lowered himself inside, Jon groaned audibly as the pleasant waters touched his flesh, already turning a muddy grey colour from all the muck coming off his body. Jon did not waste any more time and started scrubbing himself clean of any speck of dirt. When that colossal task was finished, Jon started washing his hair from anything that found purchase inside the rat’s nest he called ringlets of hair.

It took him a while to get himself thoroughly clean and satisfied, but when Jon was finished and stepped out of the tub, he turned and saw it filled with water as greyly mottled as a rain cloud. It made him chuckle sheepishly to himself. Jon never realized how much of a pig he was these last few months. Jon grabbed and wrapped a spare dry cloth hanging from a rack nearby around his waist, whilst he took another and started drying off his hair. With his curly locks dry, he grabbed a hairband and tied his frontal locks into a tail at the back of his head, and allowed some of his ringlets to cascade down his nape.

A fresh pile of clothes was neatly folded on the bed at his pleasure. On a rack was a cloak placed, made of rich damask velvet, soft and smooth as YiTish silk. They were garbs in the black and red dyes of his family. With a bit of shuffling and turning, Jon found himself dressed in pleasantly feeling clothes of dark and scarlet colours, with small details of gold around the collar of his tunic and the borders of his sleeves. His trousers were rather form fitting around his hip, a bit too tight for comfort, but it could be adjusted by loosening the waist sash a little.

He had his armour and chainmail send to the forges to be tended by the mending hands of a smith. It needed much care after five long years of unpausing fights. Jon wondered if the armour had lost some of its rubies during one of the countless fights he was in.

Jon slipped into a pair of freshly polished boots made of lizard leather, their surface casting back the lights of the lanterns around, tied the laces, tucked the ends of his trousers inside his boots and then threw the mantle across his shoulders. He clicked it in place with a gilded buckle hammered in a circular shape, with the three-headed dragon emblazoned on it. Jon exited the room given to him to freshen up, and a servant girl immediately went up to him, eyes demurely thrown downwards as she bowed a little.

“Greetings, Your Highness, Lord Staegone tasked me with guiding you to the dining hall. He and his family awaits your arrival most eagerly.”

Jon’s body tingled a bit in unease at seeing the girl drudge to maintain her bow. Her left leg looked concerningly frail, trembling like a leave in the wind and ready to snap in two at any second. Jon helped the girl stand up straight by gently lifting her by the ridges of her elbows, shocking her at the sudden touch. Jon was unable to further witness her flounder to placate him for his so called elevated status.

He smiled tightly then. “No need to break your knees for mere formalities. I would never forgive myself for it.” His smile waned. “You remind me of my aunt, Princess Daenerys, with your youth and white features. Do you perhaps hail from the lands of Lys?”

Her straight locks as bright as briskly shaved ice did little to conceal the gratified flush down her neck and cheeks. Her eyes, greener than the most vivid leaves in midspring, glowered a little in abashment, but she did not seem ill at ease around him. Fully standing on her legs now, she offered a smile of her own, hesitant and shy.

“Yes, Your Highness. My mother was…a bedwarmer in Lys, and my father a Tyroshi sellsword. Mother couldn’t afford taking care of me, so I was given away to a slaver for a hefty price. My flight has been a long one, but I’ve eventually land here, in the Triarch’s Palace.”

A frown had found its way to Jon’s eyebrows. He felt at fault for her unease. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have asked.”

The Lyseni paled in horror and stuttered. “Please, Your Highness, there is nothing to forgive! It was I who answered your question in greater knowledge than I should have! Please, I…” She looked even more distraught, failing to come with coherent words to try and appease him, but Jon defused it quickly with a shake of his head and a reassuring smile.

He knew not why, but this Lysene girl and her Valyrian looks made his heart lurk in familiar waters, warming him with a feeling he missed, a warmth from a long time ago. Her hair was glimmering in the faint lights provided by the lanterns, like incandescent polished silver. Her skin was as white as the tusks of his war elephants, and though her eyes were not the correct shade, they still looked so beautiful. Timid, yes, but still beautiful nonetheless, not unlike his aunt’s and her radiantly fierce amethyst gems she had for eyes. Remembering Daenerys made him sigh wistfully, for remembering Dany meant remembering Rhae and Uncle Aemon. And Mother. It made him remember home again. The march back to the Empire had dulled his senses, but now, there was no more denying it or thinking it to be a some sort of conjured illusion. His heart finally caught up to all of it.

He was finally coming back home after years of self-imposed service.

To Jon’s growing woe, he found himself cross between feeling elated and conflicted.

“Your Highness? Are you well?”

Like earlier today, Jon lapsed into a small moment of remembrance, and quickly he blinked away the straying thoughts. “Yes, just pressed with some thoughts. Please, lead the way, I’m certain Lord Belicho is getting impatient.” Again, a look of distress crossed her countenance, already imagining the fault laying at her feet, and again Jon reassured her, this time with a stronger gesture by placing a hand softly on her shoulder. “I’ll take responsibility for my tardiness, don’t worry.”

Her cheeks were dusted with a lightly shade of pink, her lips curling up in a shy simper, before she remembered herself and led the way towards the dining hall.

For a moment, Jon appraised the hallways of the Triarch’s Palace, gazing at the paintings hanging about and the statues lined up at the sides. They were effigies of preceding Triarchs who brought Volantis to new heights of exaltations during their reign. Oddly enough, there was even a statue of Horonno the Ambitious, the master of Volantis during the time of Emperor Aegon the Restorer. Horonno was a man repeatedly re-elected for his competences. When he grew jaded of such formalities, Horonno proclaimed himself Triarch for Life and promised to unite the southern daughters of Old Valyria under his cause, by force of will if need be, and bring glories to Volantis the likes which it had never seen before. The Volantenese were receivable of his aspirations at first, but that amiability had burnt to smouldering ashes alongside the great fleet Horonno had raised to fulfil his goals. Not a sennight later, and he was captured by rioters, stripped of his lands and titles and quartered by elephants. It was a dreary end for a man who was once considered a great hero in Volantis.

“Here we are, Your Highness, Triarch Belicho awaits your arrival behind these doors.” She said and pushed open the doors. “His Highness, the Prince of Summerhall, Jon Targaryen, has arrived.”

Rising from their seats were six people, two men and four women. Triarch Belicho strutted around with the confidence of a sturdy man, though he was not very well shaped with muscles and attractive marks. His girth was robust fat instead of graceful sinew. The greater part of his head was clean of hair, but he did have side-whiskers the colour of sand, betraying his nascent baldness. Like most of the Volantene nobles, Belicho was swathed in garbs only a man rich enough to buy off the debts of three lesser cities could effort.

Belicho Staegone was not a handsome man, with his hanging nose looking like that of a boar’s, crossed eyes too far apart from each other, and his left clubfoot the result of a painful case of hard birth. His wife was his polar opposite. Belicho was the descendant of a lowly Volantenese who got his enriched blood through the slave trade and she came from the lands of the Perfumed Sister as the daughter of an ancient but disgraced family. She was far too comely for a man such as Belicho Staegone to deserve, even with his great wealth.

Lysene women, either high–or lowborn, were the last visible daughters of Old Valyria. Many of them had the Valyrian blond tresses and purple eyes, heart-shaped faces and fluid features. More than anywhere else in the known world, the blood of Old Valyria still coursed strong in the Lyseni, who were regarded as otherworldly beautiful and the last living legacy of Valyria’s elegance. Many of the nobility in Lys had produced infamous beauties. And Lady Vaeraria was no exception.

Though, comely as she was, she held herself like a meek lady, unsure of her place and strained like the cords of an overplayed harp, with her pale blue eyes demurely pointed downwards, her trembling hands pressed against the sapphire fabric of her dress and folded against her stomach, and some stray locks framing the sides of her pretty face, hiding it away a little.

Gentleness was a trait many a man desired in their wives. Ostensibly, Belicho seemed to be no exception, though his eyes still looked unsatiated. His grasping hands and leering smiles were rote, and bad habits were hard to conceal, even harder to kill.

Jon had heard from the scullery maids tittering around too carelessly that as the years passed by, Belicho took many of his serving girls and boys to bed, whilst he dictated over his wife harshly, and it moulded her into a downtrodden and rigid creature.

When they married, Belicho, a man of thirty-and-four and Vaeraria, a girl at the ripe age of ten-and-seven, performed their marital duties regularly, their son and three daughters a token to that, but it seemed she did not fully satisfy her husband’s avarices, despite her remarkable beauty and good nature. It seemed that love did not take root between them. How that was possible eluded Jon completely; how could a man of sound mind not come to love such a willowy creature as the Lady Vaeraria? He admitted, if it were Jon who had the honour of having a creature as lovely, demure and lissom as her on his arm to call his wife, he would not dare to look at another woman.

“Your Highness, your presence here is an honour. We welcome the Emperor’s esteemed son in our midst.” He spoke fluently, giving his versed courtesies with a broad smile, letting them pour sweetly like molten sugar through his teeth as he approached to shake Jon’s hand firmly. He ushered his wife and children forward. “You’ve already met my wife, Lady Vaeraria, five years ago when you rode off to fight the Dothraki.”

Vaeraria came near, and locked her eyes with Jon’s uncertainly. “My prince, how very lovely to see you again. You honour us deeply with your visit.” She sweetly murmured in her soft-spoken way.

Belicho smiled at her, though it failed to seem genuine. Jon opened his hand, as if asking for an offering. Vaeraria paused, a little nonplussed, but eventually placed her own hand in his, and Jon brought it to his lips to kiss her knuckles. “The honour is all mine, my lady.” Jon answered.

In a moment of awe, Vaeraria’s lips parted, and then she curled the ends of her lips upwards, and stepped away, a tint of rose across her cheeks. At the age of high maturity, she was still a beautiful woman to look upon, and when she blushed, it only emphasized that. Jon had no qualms in confessing that he might have developed an infatuation for her when they first met, and might still feel some of that lingering affection today still.

The boy came forward next, eager and haughty-looking, and Jon appraised him for a moment as Belicho introduced him. “My son, Donaro, a fine man in the making.” Donaro indeed looked a man in the making, with his back as straight as a candle, lean arms on view and a chiselled face that spoke of little remaining child’s flesh. If Jon had to guess, he would be around the age of ten-and-five, a little older than Jon was when he entered the legion.

“Your Highness, I’ve heard much about your exploits east of Aegon’s Wall, and I cannot express my elation for your visit. Truly, a great honour. Your name is being whispered from the slums of Volantis to the docks of Braavos. Already, they’re comparing you to the Young Dragon.” Like his father, he offered a hand and Jon shook his the same way he shook the Triarch’s.

“Your words are flattering, Donaro. I take it you wish to bind yourself to the imperial legions and do battle one of these days?”

The boy with Lysene hair straightened even more. “No, Your Highness. I very much wish to, but sadly, I can’t. Father has made it clear the importance of his legacy and wants his heir here to learn the arts of diplomacy and stewardship, instead of the martial arts.”

Jon regarded the Triarch. “Surely, you can allow your son to go and fight for the Empire’s glory? The seat of a Triarch is not hereditary, and you look very much like you wish to continue holding office for a little longer.”

“My prince, not all of us have the luxury of having a spare, you see? I’m tutoring my only son about his future responsibilities to Volantis, and perhaps one day, to the Empire as well. He has no time for such uncultivated occupations.” Belicho chuckled.

Jon narrowed his eyes at the lateral taunt to his person. Belicho’s wife gasped softly, balking at hearing her husband’s inflammatory rebuke, whilst his children shifted uncomfortably in their spots. Despite the slight, Jon turned the other cheek and merely nodded.

Belicho won his election through the efforts of the Elephant party, a coterie of rich merchants hellbent on preventing _any_ kind of armed conflicts. War and trade did not go hand in hand well after all, and any prospect of divergences towards their gold flows would make them squirm and whine like spoiled children bereft of their favourite sweet. It was through that fact that Belicho was mandated to keep outside the detriments of war.

The three daughters were anxious to step in, and thus, they glided forward with swan-like grace and all three murmured a low ‘Your Highness’ as they stooped a bit through their knees. They looked to be older than their brother, perhaps of a similar age as Jon himself, with their more fledged attributes a tell-tale sign of growing maturity. They were all her mother made young again, and just as beautiful.

Jon was no lecher, but even he keenly took note of the effort these girls went through to dress a bit more risqué than what would be considered proper with their tightly fitting dresses and various cuts around showing more of their pale skin, lustrous curves and filling swellings. Then again, this _was_ Essos. Propriety had no defined part to play here.

One of them, the youngest Jon presumed, since she was the shortest and looked the most mischievous, walked up with what could only be a kittenish simper. “If it pleases His Highness, would you allow us a kiss, perhaps? So we can at least know the taste of a comely prince’s lips?”

Not used to such boldness, Jon felt both his eyebrows raise as he blinked repeatedly. He could not help but look back at the Triarch questioningly, who chuckled further. His wife looked mortified at her daughter’s assertiveness.

“Dilina! It is not your place to ask of such liberties from His Highness.”

Her sister interjected with a whine. “But Mother, look at him! The prince is so very handsome! We may never have the chance again to see a man as strong and virile as Prince Jon, let alone have a kiss!”

Jon crossed his hands behind his back, unsurely furrowing his brows. They considered him handsome? “Surely, you have not seen my brother, Prince Aegon, yet.”

The eldest chortled behind her hand after she swept her honey-coloured mane back. “We have, Your Highness. A couple of moonturns ago when we visited the capital with our father, we crossed paths with His Highness there. Prince Aegon certainly is most beautiful. As beautiful as Dilina and Aerene are!” Her sisters joined in on the giggling. She continued. “The crown prince is truly beautiful, but a man shouldn’t be as beautiful as he is. No woman wishes to doubt her confidence, and your brother certainly made us question ourselves. Your brother looked so pretty that I’m sure just as many men leered at him as the women did.”

Yes, that did indeed summarize his foppish brother pretty accurately.

The middlemost chimed in, her locks dangling from side to side when she shook her head derisively. “What woman wishes to lie with a man that makes her compare her own beauty to his, and find herself lacking? I, for one, would not desire such a man. He’d need to be towering and rugged, a true man that sparks the flames of lus–”  

“That’s enough, Aerene. You will hold your tongue and not cause the Prince’s ire. That goes for all you three.” Their mother the Lady Vaeraria scolded, her voice never rising an octave but sounding very firm still. Her daughters ceased their merriment at once, though the coquettish smiles did not melt away from their lips yet. The youngest looked like she wanted to throw caution into the wind, and thus, decided to try her luck anyway, in spite of their mother’s growing frustration.

“Your Highness, you have still not answered our question.” She sing-sang.

Lady Vaeraria was about to open her mouth and further reproach her daughter no doubt, but Jon intervened with a hand raised plainly. “I’m not used to such attention, but If I have your parents’ leave, I see no harm in it.”

They beamed at once and expectantly eyed their father and mother. Belicho did not seem disturbed in the least, with his hand stroking his chin thoughtfully, a twinkle of amusement dancing inside the blues of his eyes. He seemed to appraise the situation, as if a good deal was being bartered before him. Donaro looked peeved, but remained silent with his arms crossed.

The Lady Vaeraria was less lenient, and looked like she might protest, but the combined efforts of her daughters whimpering their begging did her in sooner than Jon expected, and so, she caved and acquiesced. She softly apologized to him, but Jon smiled it off.

These girls were not the first to have a kiss from him. For the sake of formalities, Jon was sometimes obliged to kiss the daughter of a powerful magistrate, who was eager to have his girl fall in good graces with the imperial family, by any means necessary. It came most of the time at the expense of his own comfort, but what was his comfort compared to Father’s ordain?

Dany always kissed him on the lips whenever she pleased back in the days of old when they were small children and liked to sate their curiosities. Rhae gave him a kiss when Jon had accomplished a good feat, and she wished to reward him for his diligence. Jon sometimes even received a kiss from Mother.

Though, such kisses were chaste, pure and meant little beyond what they stood for, just signs of affection between kin. Jon never experienced a true kiss which sparked the flames of desire within him. For years, he served as a soldier, and then as commander, in an imperial legion. And the imperial legions were comprised purely out of men, so it was natural he did not meet someone who he was attracted to. Jon did not view men as a source of desire, unlike Aegon did.

The youngest went first. Jon placidly grasped both her hands and waited for her to lean in and press her lips to his. She did so with a little too much excitement, pushing her lips to his in a kiss that would have been painful for their noses if Jon did not timely tilt his head to the right. After a short seconds, Dilina gave a sigh, stepped back and took her place again, gazing dreamily at him.

Aerene followed, and Jon knew her to be the most coy of the three. Her comment earlier went unfinished, but Jon was not deaf nor oblivious. No girl of proper decorum would have finished that line, and if it was not for her mother, the girl would have laid her lusty proclivities bare on the ground.

She too leaned in for a kiss, her hands resting on his shoulders and his bracing her by her thin waist, and when they touched, Jon could feel she was far more experienced and confident than Dilina, like she had a purpose and her tools at hand to reach her end. She took a little more risk and nibbled at Jon’s lips a bit, trying to pry them open, but Jon did not give her that satisfaction, and obstinately pursed them.

Dissuaded, Aerene broke off their kiss and took her place back, a little disappointed but looking somewhat satisfied nonetheless.

Melaria came last, and she too placed her hands on his shoulders to balance herself. She brushed her lips against his gently, in comparison to her sisters Dilina and Aerene. Hers was the most pleasant, Jon decided, neither forceful or inexperienced, the pressure solid but soft at the same time. Tenderly, he braced her waist and pulled away from Melaria, but she found no insult in it and merely smiled broadly when she took a step back next to her sisters.

With that out of the way, Jon fixated his purple eyes back on the Triarch, already reaching for his seat. “I have some inquiries during our dinner, Belicho. I’m sure you’re aware of their nature.”

Belicho snapped his fingers, and the doors opened, with several serving girls and boys carrying a great amount of plates in. “Surely, such dreary business can be discussed later, Your Highness? You must be positively famished! How long has it been since you’ve had a decent meal?”

A large plate was placed before him, filling his nostrils with its rich and spicy aroma. Jon gazed in muted wonder at the white cereal grain steaming and riddled with an orange sauce, small bits of cut meat at the side and cooked vegetables sprinkled here and there.

Belicho grinned after he took a spoon of his own meal. “It’s an Eastern dish, my prince, they call it–”

“–Rice, if I’m correct. It’s quite a common dish around Yi Ti, but many a household do not have the intricate utensils here, in the Empire, to properly prepare it.” Jon lifted his own spoon, blew it a few times, and then brought it into his mouth. “If you think I can be distracted by exotic foods, you’re misguided in your pursue. I want you to answer my questions. Now.”

Belicho nodded absently, motioning for the warm bread to be brought to him. Lady Vaeraria handed it to him, and as he began dipping it into his stew after he broke them in little pieces, he regarded Jon with pointed eyes.

“Your captain of the city guard spoke of a recent flood of fugitives.” Jon opened. “He said they came from the east, which most likely refers to Slaver’s Bay if my presumptions are correct?”

“Correct, these little runaways are indeed Meereenese and Yunkish people fleeing the grasps of the Dothraki and Ghiscari invaders.” Belicho responded with a watery wave. “It seems New Ghis has finally made a move on the old daughters of the Harpy.”

“Elaborate.” Jon prompted insistently. Belicho smirked in response.

“The King of New Ghis, Grisnahr zo Gizhaq, I never cared for their ridiculous Ghiscari names, has recently wedded his eldest daughter to Khal Drogo. With it came the dowry of five hundred thousand gold harpies.”

The Triarch took a mouthful of wine. “The Great Khal has sworn to bring to heel the Slaver Cities for this Ghiscari king, who, according to the whispers of our spies, plans to crown himself the sovereign of a newly re-established Ghiscari dominion, and thus, he marched his iron legions upon Slaver’s Bay. Yunkai and its army of bedslaves surrendered within a day. They never were any good besides spreading their legs for customers. As for Meereen, that one held out a little longer, but the might of trebuchets eventually tore down their walls. Now, the cities owe their allegiance to the King of New Ghis. Khal Drogo wishes to enact vengeance for his fallen brethren that you defeated at the Painted Mountains, and Grisnahr promised Khal Drogo his aid, would that he could conquer the Slaver Cities in his name first. Astapor remains untouched yet, but the reputation of the fearsome Unsullied will not forever protect them. If that city falls, I think we may very well find ourselves with a new rival in the east, with very sharp weapons aimed our way. Truly, quite a frightening prospect; imagine the Unsullied legions of Astapor, the iron legions of New Ghis and the Dothraki horde as a combined army.”

A terrifying vision that would be, Jon thought. The prowess of the Unsullied preceded them, and the iron legions of New Ghis were rumoured to be the lockstep legions of the Ghiscar Empire come again, not that very different from the Unsullied. And then there was Khal Drogo, with forty thousand Dothraki screamers, all of them sworn to kill in his name. Jon’s hand started twitching in unease, the desire to have his swords in hand an increasing tide. Jon had given Blackfyre and Brightflame to Thoros for safekeeping, and now he was coming to regret his decision.

“Aegon’s Wall will repel their efforts. Not a single enemy of the Empire has ever broken through the great barrier between the Empire and the Great Grass Sea. Khal Drogo will be another one on top of the pile of broken bodies who tried that folly, I’ll assure you of that.”

“Oh, I’m not concerned, Your Highness. Aegon’s Wall has stood for two hundred years without a single stone falling off of it. The Dothraki and this pretender to the Ghiscar Empire are welcome to try and challenge our supremacy.”

Jon nodded, but did little after aside from eating his meal. When he was finished with his meal, he excused himself on the pretext of fatigue, and promptly left the dining hall. His mind was swirling with a thousand thoughts as he marched through the halls towards his chambers; the Dothraki and Ghiscari were together in bed, and that was a very concerning thought. With this much manpower and resources at their disposal, they could very well pose a danger towards the Empire. He had to bring this to Father’s attention and start planning for a military campaign against the Slaver Cities. Three days be damned, he needed his sworn swords now, and a ship towards the capital on the morrow.

This could not continue to grow into a real threat. For if it did, Jon feared what kind of fate would wait for the Holy Valyrian Empire. The Freehold had salt and sulphur sown across the fields of Ghiscar thousands of years ago. Such resentments did not easily simmer away. And not to mention the hatred of the Dothraki Jon had earned during his campaign against them. Jon did not wish to even conjure the possible reciprocations of the Ghiscari and the Dothraki.

It would eventually all come to a head.

Jon had to be prepared for it.

He and the Empire both.

* * *

**THE NARROW SEA**

**THE WINTER PRINCESS**

 

The flutter of little wings, the sloshing of cold water against creaking wood, the smell of salt and chill in the air. Familiar sounds, familiar smells. The gales were blowing over, pushing against a great white expanse sutured to a tall and brown structure, bloating it like a belly filled with too much ale. Something thick held it all together, thick like braids, brown and feeling raw at the touch. A tilt to the side, a tilt to the side. Sailing, that was what she was remembering, dreaming. A voyage. Towards where? Or from what away?

Pain and cruelty, she reminded.

How could she forget?

Curses and crooked laughter about, thudding in accord with sturdy and drawn-out footsteps, hasty and frantic. People were anxious. The voices spoke a vulgar language; the language of seafarers. Of rusty blades cutting off parts a maiden would blush hearing of, of shining conquests and pleasurable spoils, of vicious dwellers of the depths, and a dread lord’s eye that made many a tongue cease its waggling. The footsteps multiplied, louder and harsher, first like little pebbles scattering across hollow wood, then like hammers striking upon an anvil. Silence then ruled.

A caw, then another, and another.

“An eye for an eye! A finger for a lie!” It chirped hoarsely; more like scrapped than squeaked. A set of cat claws scratching the face of wood. A chuckle followed.

“Lory knows how to greet an old friend, doesn’t he, Davos?” Smoothly, this man spoke, familiar with courtesies. He was a rich man. Probably as rich as his voice.

“Old friend? Never liked your bird much, Salla. Can’t really blame me, now can you?” Davos grounded out. Another chuckle followed.

“Hah! S’pose I can’t. Fingers and worms always looked the same to me, anyways, though I more than fairly compensated you for them.”

“Aye, fair to give a gold coin for every pint of blood I lost that day to your damnable bird.” Davos snorted. “So, what brings you here, my friend? My barge isn’t yet filled with crabs and turnips, so there’s no use asking for a sack of them.”

A trickle of water crept through the crevice of the ship’s bowels, dripping, dripping, and dripping on to the floor with undulating determination. This, she remembered more clearly, as the droplets splashed on the side of her nose, startling her.

“One of my sellsails told me an interesting little tale?”

“Tale? What kind of tale, if I may, Salla?”

A hum, then a laugh. Or was it a laugh, then a hum? “A very entertaining little tale, I must say so myself. Ludicrous even. You see, it speaks of a fair maiden who fled the bars of her birdcage, sprouting wings and taking off to the sky!”

“Truly? Sounds a bit ridiculous indeed.”

“Yes, yes! But my crew insist it’s a tale of truth, not spun from lies or jests. They speak of fiery hair, and sapphire eyes. A princess, most beautiful and nubile, pale as silver, with ice in her veins.”

“You mean…like the Storm King’s betrothed?” The trickling of water came back, only, it slid not down the inner skin of the ship, but her throat. 

“Like the Storm King’s betrothed. What was her name again…Sarra? Stella?” The trickling thickened into a lumpy stream. It was hard to swallow suddenly.

“Gods if I know. I’m no good in swimming through memories. Get lost easily there. My dear wife always was the better one in that regard. All I know is that she’s a girl of noble birth, royal birth actually, hailing from the North.”

“Ah, my dear friend Davos. Are you certain that’s all you know?”

“What do you mean…?”

“An eye for an eye! A finger for a lie!”

A long pause. Itches all across her body started to invade her senses, almost overwhelmingly so, an army of little scratching teeth setting her skin on edge. And then, the long pause ended.

“Well, it seems you’re as unaware as I am about the circumstances of this princess. Well, no matter, I’m determined to find this maiden and see if her beauty is as stories tell. She’d make an excellent trade. Or perhaps even a fine concubine.”

Footsteps yet again pattered above, loud, but organized, retreating, and retreating, until no such thing as the rattling from earlier echoed all across.

And then, the darkness enveloped all else.

 

* * *

**VOLANTIS**

**SANSA II**

 

Sansa felt that a deep grogginess had taken a hold of her, causing her to drift between conscious and unconsciousness, like a piece of wood floating listlessly on the ocean. She felt disoriented, her body swimming in an ocean with no shores in sight.

Through her closed eyelids, Sansa could see the shimmering light of the weakly lit candles placed on the shelves about. To her, they shone as bright as the bonfires during the harvest feasts. She remembered them fondly, back when Sansa was but a little girl dancing in a meadow of turnsoles and cornflowers, the castle of her sweet girlhood, Winterfell, not far behind. Jeyne would be singing a pretty little song whilst Beth played her willow wooden flute to the melody of their friend’s voice, the three of them dancing around one other, sharing titters, smiles and songs.

Those were such happy memories, Sansa wondered. What had happened to them? Ah yes, it came back to her, a gradual descent into a spiralling pool of murky water, the current flushing against her and each splash against her face making her remember and remember. Her journey to Storm’s End, her betrothed welcoming her with open arms, with a smile as false as fool’s gold, though she did not see it then, then her torment at the hands of the lions in stag’s skin, and her following escape.

Sansa felt someone tug at her lips, and then how her mouth was slowly pried open by soft and thin fingers, and something that felt like a damp cloth was pressed against the gums of her teeth. Just as fast as it came, just as fast it went, and Sansa could hear murmuring around her head. They were leaning closely to her, sounding not but a hair’s length away from her. The cloth was removed, and the voices grew concerned.

“Sailor’s sickness…”

“Sailor’s sickness…?”

“Aye, my girl, the princess is suffering from the sailor’s sickness. No surprise, we’ve been floating aboard the _Black Betha_ for more than a moon’s turn.”

“How can we help her, Ser Davos? Is it curable?”

“Aye, it is, but we can’t do much against the disease here, sad I as am to admit. This is a foe that goes beyond any of us on this ship.”

“You can’t mean…!”

“Easy now, dear girl, all is not lost. The sickness hasn’t yet ripened into a fatal fruit. Lucky for us, and milady the princess, Volantis is near. Only a few leagues until we hit the moors. There are healers there that can defeat the sickness, but we must make haste. The princess has been weakened by the long journey, and a weak body won’t be able to withstand such a beleaguering illness for long.”

Their speech muffled, quieting as if a rag got pressed against their mouths, growing fainter and fainter whilst the darkness took over again. Sansa’s presence of mind slipped away into the black abyss, and it was only after a few hours again when she came to her senses once more.

This time, Sansa fluttered her eyes open, squinting them against the offending light, however faint it was. Her back hurt against the hardness of her straw bed, her muscles achingly stiff and sore from sleeping upon such a merciless resting place. Her throat felt hoarse and dry, and swallowing felt like a great chore. Her throat felt sandier than the dunes of the Dornish deserts, or perhaps even the Red Waste. Sansa felt so parched, she thought she could gulp down an entire ocean. Her skin felt damp, yet burning as well. A clash was going on between fire and water, and her body was its battlefield. She moaned pitifully at all the pains she was suffering.

But Sansa endured though. Sansa had endured the voyage, like she had promised herself. Sansa had endured the meals of addled bread and cold sailor’s stew filled with old onions rings. Sansa had endured the raging storms outside that rocked the boat left and right, to and fro on the tongues of the sea. It made her stomach churn and twist, but she withstood. Sansa had endured the secret leers of the sailors, though dim in comparison to Joffrey’s knights, still a look that made Sansa remember unfriendly faces and ill feelings she wished to keep buried beneath a pile of snow, stone and earth. Sansa did not squeak a single whimper during it all. She had endured and would endure further. Just as all Starks endured hard times.

The girl who would have complained about these harsh circumstances was pushed off and thrown into a dungeon, locked away to be never again seen. And Sansa preferred it that way.

Her beloved companion Ashlyn was wringing a cloth out above a small bowl, then dipped it into the water again, rinsed and repeated her moves.

“A-ashlyn…?” She rasped. Before she could say anything else, a series of coughs harrowed Sansa’s lungs and chest, feeling a thousand needles prod her from the inside. Ashlyn was at her side immediately, helping Sansa into a better position.

“Take it easy, milady, your malaises haven’t waned. You must preserve your strengths, lest your fever renders you unable to move. You must be feelin’ tired, no?” Being tired did not cut it in the least. Sansa felt her muscles burn with ache all throughout her body, even muscles she did not know she had. Her bones felt so brittle, like a babe’s, and yet so heavy. They too ached so painfully. It was utter torment to feel this ache.

A hand snaked its way to the back of her head, and Sansa felt it push her forward. A cup filled with water was brought to her lips, and Sansa greedily drank in the contents as though it would be her last. Ashlyn smiled softly, dabbling the corners of Sansa’s mouth when she was done.

“Don’t be worried, princess, Ser Davos is currently busy going about the harbour askin’ for healers. We’ve finally arrived at Volantis. Must admit, I’m not too keen on the smell around here, it’s putrid and eye-stinging, but the city’s pretty though, never seen so many people in one place.” The cloth she was wringing earlier was placed on top of her forehead, cooling the heat across her brows a bit.

“W-what’s happening to me?” Sansa inquired, finding her voice again. The bit of water she drank did wonders to her.

Ashlyn frowned worriedly, her hand still on top of the cloth that was simmering her down. “Milady is suffering from an illness. The sailor’s sickness, they call it. Quite dangerous if not treated timely.”

“Sailor’s sickness…?”

“Yes, milady. We’ve been longer than a moon’s turn on the waters. Any sailor so long adrift without decent supplies would eventually fall to the fell clutches of the sea’s sicknesses, or so the seamen say.” A cough interrupted Ashlyn, but she was quick to smother it.

Sansa moaned again, a particularly painful surge whipping through her body, crackling like a bolt of thunder through the storm, and hitting her straight where it hurt. Then, the doors opened again and in came Ser Davos.

“How is Princess Sansa faring, dear Ash?” He asked, looking a little out of breath. He must have come in a hurry.

Ashlyn shook her head ruefully. “Not well, good ser. She’s keeling with pains all over and the fever is not going down.”

The older man went about the cabin, rummaging through the trinkets, odds and ends around before he found a large woolly cloak with the colour of mud and earth.

“We must help her up and about. Stuffed away inside this cabin will do her more ill than good. Let’s see if going outside and enjoying some fresh air will better her health.

Ashlyn looked ready to protest, but Sansa halted her with a hand on her arm. “Good Ser Davos is right, mayhaps going outside into the open will elevate some of the sickness.”

Ashlyn sighed, retrieving the bowl of water as she rose from her perch. “If you will so, milady. What of the healers, Ser Davos? Found anyone good with herbs or remedies?”

Ser Davos’ face went pallid. “None that were well-versed, and I didn’t want to endanger the Princess by bringing someone whose competence in this area was questionable.”

Ashlyn’s patience began to run thin now. “What are we to do then, Ser Davos!? We’ve been doing naught but sitting on this ship and allowing the sickness to fester inside our bones! She’s suffering! The princess might even die from her ailments! You told me there were healers in this shit-smelling city that could cure whatever it is that’s ailing Princess Sansa!” Tears now sprung out of her eyes, trickling down her ashen cheeks. Her voice turned into a fearful whisper. “ We can’t keep this up. She might die on us, Ser Davos…”

Ashlyn was breathing heavily, her eyes puffed and red from shedding tears, and the skin of her face paler than the moon. Her lower lip quivered from barely restrained sobs. Sansa’s heart ached so terribly to see her beloved friend suffer so, and the pain was felt thrice so many times when she realized it was by her doing.  

Ser Davos was by her side in a moment’s notice, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t lose hope yet, dear girl. The princess can be yet saved. Chin up, you can’t allow desperation take you away.” Ser Davos consoled Ash. She wrestled with her emotions for a moment, the tears not yet blinked away, but slowly, they ceased spilling and Ash bobbed her head gently, wiping away the souses on her cheeks with a palm. She steeled, that determined look on her face again, the same when they fled the Stormlands.

Davos allowed the affectionate smile to play on his lips, proud to see the girl he saw as his own daughter so strong and collected again. He parted from her and went to her side. “My princess, can you stand on your legs? It’s important to see if you’ve still some mastery over your body.”

Sansa tried to raise herself up, but the struggle was great. She felt her body protest, each movement a sting of pain, each small turn of her joints a crack of her bones. She moaned, but continued onwards. Sansa had to bite through the green apple if she wanted to get on top of this illness that was threatening to render her bedridden, and even worse, rob her from life.

And so, after great efforts, Sansa stood on shaky legs, Ser Davos coming to her right, and dear Ashlyn to her left, both bracing her with their arms around her waist. A part of Sansa admitted that standing on her legs again felt invigorating, as though she had overcome a great mountainous hurdle, and now stood at the peak of its zenith. And thus, feeling emboldened, Sansa took a tentative step forward, then another, until the numbness in her toes and calves faded away, stiff from disuse no more.

The wooden stairs leading to the deck was a hindrance Sansa thought to be of an even greater colossal task to conquer, but as she trotted up, up, and up, her muscles did not tear, nor did her resolve falter, and soon enough, Sansa found herself finally atop the deck of the _Black Betha._

The breeze of the Summer Sea blew through her hair, gently gliding over her lightly freckled face, whilst the tendrils of the sun brought back light to her eyes, even if eclipsed by fat splotches of hoary clouds. Like a mother’s hand caressing a child’s sleeping face, it awakened her dulled mind from a restless slumber. Her eyes bloomed like dandelions from a long winter opening their petals to ingest the rays of the smiling sun. Sansa remembered the cavern from where her great voyage started, when she inhaled so deeply, Sansa thought she was almost drowning in this fresh sea of air.

Her nostrils expanded, and she inhaled, hoping to relive that great moment.

The scent she smelled instead caused her to wrinkle her nose.

“What is this foul smell?” Sansa grimaced, placing a cloth to her nose to hold at bay the offensive smell.

Ashlyn grinned lopsidedly. “That, milady, is the sweet smell of flowers, fish and elephant shit blend together. Told you it’s invasive and stingy.”

It was quite an awful smell, strong enough that it prickled her eyes a little. Sansa shuffled a bit on deck, dragging her feet over the wooden floor until she no longer needed the assistance of Ser Davos and Ashlyn to keep her up.

She planted her hands on the wooden railing, hunching forward to look at the sight of Volantis and its harbour. It was breath-taking, if you could ignore the smell around.

The Winter Town and White Harbour were the only two places Sansa knew of that could be described as large settlements. Old Nan used to say that the Winter Town would come to life when the winds of winter would come rolling down the Lands of Always Winter to shoo away the farmers, lumberjacks and fishermen from their little holdfasts and frozen fields. That was when the people began to hasten the preparations, for winter was about to come.

White Harbour, Sansa had only visited once in her lifetime, back when her king father wished to revisit the castle of the Wolf’s Den and see if it could be turned into a proper holdfast for Bran in the future. Those crumbling walls were dark and frightening and its towers slightly askew, moss and vines all over it likes veins through a living body. A prison it looked more than a proper castle. Father wanted to change that. When the shade of dusk had fallen over the lands, Sansa and the rest of her family that had come along to White Harbour, drank, danced and feasted in the warm and great hall of New Castle at the pleasure of Lord Wyman Manderly.

Both places were, if Sansa was asked, buzzling settlements at certain times of the season. And both of them did not come close to what Volantis was. The harbour stretched as far as Sansa could see with her bright blue eyes, various ships of various sizes taking an anchor around as the pier tolled loudly and without stop. One ship even looked as large as a castle itself, easily capable of swallowing the _Black Betha_ whole if it had a maw. Sansa tallied more than four masts, all of them with sails as dark as the wood it was made of.

Seagulls were flying around the bay, hovering with fixed attention around what seemed to be a fisherman’s boat. One of the sailors unloaded thick caskets filled to the brim with herring or trout, or any other type of fish making its home within the blue expanse of the Summer Sea. One seagull was brazen enough to whisk away a fish, which fell off the barrel by too much wriggling about, splattering around the wooden creaks of the moors and scooped up by a beak right before one of the fishers could place it back.

Sansa felt a hand press against the small of her back, and Ashlyn guided her across the gangplank up the docks they had moored at. Her legs still felt a bit tired, but Sansa dragged her feet across nonetheless.

With all three of them now on land Ser Davos brought out a map of the city and started reading it. “The marketplace is not too far away. Least we can do now is find us some sour fruit if we there are no healers about that can take care of this.”

Sansa turned to Ser Davos, a question already on her tongue. “What would we need sour fruit for, good ser?”

He scratched his beard, already trudging into the marketplace’s direction. “Heard from other sailors that sour fruits such as lemons and oranges are good replacements for the remedies. I myself never ventured longer than a fortnight on the seas, so I never got the sailor’s sickness. You’re never too old to learn a thing or two.”

Lemons. How long had it been since Sansa had tasted the sweet and tart flavour of lemons? Joffrey never indulged her back in Storm’s End, only himself and when he felt in a good mood, his mother, but never her, his prospecting wife and queen. Cersei did not think to encourage him either, as though she found amusement in the treatment of her son towards the would-be mother of her grandchildren. Sansa shook her head sadly.

_Stop giving them thought. You cannot allow them to haunt your every waking moment. They were a cold lot, and allowing them to permeate your thoughts will only bring you sadness and coldness as well._

Around her as they kept walking, Sansa’s ears picked up tones the barters and traders here used in their speech. It sounded tardy, stretched, but still pleasant, like sugary butter spread over too much bread. It sounded like a contorted language of Sansa’s most favourite tongue, High Valyrian. She recognized some words being said, but Sansa had little time to properly learn the tongue after her betrothal to King Joffrey was announced, and she was to make preparations to go south.

Some of the greatest songs and poets were written in the tongue of the dragonlords. Sansa had found their writ gracefully wavy. She discovered her interest piqued the first time she came across a poet back in Maester Luwin’s solar. Later, Maester Luwin explained to her that their pretty forms and curves were called glyphs.

Sansa had begged her king father for a Valyrian lexicon for her fifteenth nameday so she could decipher the meaning behind their beautiful curls. Sansa was not disappointed when Father had given her one. They told of such tragic but beautiful tales, Sansa even forgot the songs of Florian and Jonquil. The devasting love between Prince Aemon and his sister, Empress Naerys, always left her in such tears. They were lovers crossed by the stars, a tragedy all on their own, enough to reduce grown men to sombre grumbling and flowered women to a weeping mess.

Incestuous though their feelings may have been, Sansa was convinced that Prince Aemon the Dragonguardian’s love for his sister was pure and genuine, and her love for him as well. And, when the silly little girl would come across love, Sansa would sigh and moon about how her own one true love might be.

_Have you not learned, besotted girl? No such thing as true love exists. No man will ever love you for your heart. Descend from the clouds, lest you wish to shatter into a million pieces when you fall from grace again._

Sansa’s brows pinched and her lips curved downwards at the morbid thoughts coming to her unbidden.

_All I wished for was love… was it too much to ask of the gods? To ask that love would blossom in my life? Foolish, blind, naïve, I was all of that, yes, but do I have to keep suffering for it?”_

Her knees nodded a bit, something Ashlyn noted in an instant.

“Princess? Feelin’ alright?”

Sansa managed a nod. She shuddered mildly, enough not to rouse Ashlyn’s suspicion. Tiredness made its way again through her body in a rapid cadence. Mayhaps the sudden strength she found on the ship was just a little burst of defiance. Mayhaps her body was not feeling strengthened at all, and her rash decision to come off board and allow herself to be swallowed by this grand city would eventually be paid by a costly price.

She knew not how to answer Ashlyn. Lying was the last thing Sansa wished to resort to, yet telling Ashlyn of  her growing unease would cause her friend to worry unnecessarily without a doubt, adding even more strain to her own aches.

Yes, Sansa was privy of her beloved friend’s pains. The purple bags beneath her eyes, her small coughs she futilely tried to suppress, the little tremors in her hands. Ashlyn had contracted an illness as well, but kept herself about, most probably not wanting to give reason for Sansa to feel anxious. Sansa’s heart deeply loved Ashlyn for her caring nature, and eternally thanked the gods for sending her a friend such as her. And so, she would endeavour not to worry her, not if she could help it.

The crowd around thickened as more and more people started to pour in from all lanes. Sun-kissed dark-skinned, pale or sallow, they came in a multifold of colours. None of them looked Westerosi, though. Sansa felt like an outsider, an alien ant crawling through the tunnels of a great anthill not her own, and thus, Sansa clutched her cloak tighter around herself, wanting to be wholly swallowed by it, for if it did, perhaps Sansa could find some peace somewhere at least.

The Volantenese were strange and aloof folks, and paid no heed to others around them. They pushed and shoved and growled and sneered at any who stood in their way. Some even threw a final hiss for good measure that was surely meant as a snarky comment.

Sansa could not help the mounting dread inside her breast. These people were frightening, and here she was, right in the middle of a torrent of people uncaring of those around them. If Sansa was pushed too harshly, she might very well tumble forward onto the ground.

The way towards the markets seemed uncharacteristically difficult to access. Loaded carts, wheelhouses, chariots, all kinds of contraptions, familiar and foreign, disallowed the road to be smoothly accessible.

A sudden hoot, thunderous and startling, caused a gasp to snake its way out of Sansa’s mouth in sudden surprise, and as she turned around, Sansa witnessed a great lump of grey walking up across the lane, each step it took creating a small quake. It was of a mottled colour and had two tusks of ivory menacingly pointing forward. A tower was built on its back, strapped securely by thick leather bands across its belly. It was the largest creature Sansa had ever laid eyes upon.

“W-what is this creature…?” Sansa grated after she was brought to the sides by Ser Davos to give this beast room to move its girth.

Ser Davos chuckled. “That, princess, is an elephant if I’m correct. Big and scary creatures I tell you, loud and careless in their wake, nothing we Westerosis would ever get used to. For the people of Essos, they’re nothing special. They even use these beasts for warfare. Quite unfair if you ask me. A knight’s charge would never stand a chance against such walking walls of flesh.”

Behind the elephant, a column of red-clad soldiers marched, holding up spears twice their own length. People were trotting to the side-streets, and the soldiers took their places alongside the lines of the street to keep them there.

“Make way! Make way! His Highness the Prince of Summerhall and his procession comes through!” Sansa heard someone astride a horse, shouting around to chase away stubborn people.

People were being pressed against each other tightly, and Sansa was no exception, the vile-smelling bodies smothering her from air. Their scent made her head spin, dizzied by the lack of air. Her vision started to swim. At that precise moment, Sansa felt the pains of earlier come back with a vengeance. She clutched her tummy and slouched over, moaning painfully as nausea veined through her body uninvitedly.

“Princess!”

Sansa’s world darkened as she toppled forward. She was unaware of what was happening around her, all of it a myriad of moments coming and passing, not quite latching on to her conscience. She expected the hard ground to meet her, but instead, someone was holding her with uncertain but firm arms, most likely Ser Davos. Sansa heard more shouting, Ashlyn’s, and the last thing she remembered was an indistinct shape coming near.

A black shadow with the deepest of purple eyes.

* * *

A silent whimper of content slipped through Sansa’s lips at the riant feeling of something warm yet weightless wrapped around her. Sansa buried herself deeper in the silken feeling. It felt like nothing she had ever felt across herself. Its touch was smooth, like water, but solid as well. It smelled of plain soap and another scent she could not place her finger on, yet knew of its familiarity. It was quite musky and pleasing to her nostrils. Faintly, Sansa remembered this scent.

Two voices began to speak, and Sansa found it strangely familiar the situation she was in again.

“So, how many times is she required to drink this concoction?”

“Twice a day is required, but if she wishes for a speedy recovery, advise her to take it more often. Scurvy is a strong illness, but easily taken care of through loyal intake of fruits and cures. Her diet must consist of citruses daily so she can rebuild her tolerance again. There is no need for worry anymore, her case was not very severe, and she has been properly treated now.”

“What of her friend?”

“A strong girl, I must say. The both of them showed remarkable resilience for girls their age. Nothing more than a great deal of rest and adherence to my advice will help them along.”

“I see. Thank you, Long Zhu, your services are appreciated. You may leave now. Send my gratitude to Triarch Belicho.”

“Of course, it was a pleasure to be of service to you, my lord.”

The sound of a door opened and closed, and then all was silent again for a second before the scrapping noise of wood against wood entered Sansa’s ears. The stranger pulled out a chair and had taken a seat. And then, the eerie sound of a knife cutting through something scrapped against the drums of her ears. Sansa started to feel nervous.

_Do not panic. Nothing is going on. Keep silent and perhaps he will leave._

She opened her eyes slowly and met the wooden wall she was facing. She squirmed a bit in her place, and when she did, the cutting stopped. Sansa froze in her place.

_So much for being silent…_

“You can stop the mummery, I know you’re awake.”

Sansa sighed wordlessly.

No need to keep her pretences, she guessed.

Sansa turned to face the stranger

What she saw made her gasp.

_F-Father…?_

In dark, thick, long and curly coils his hair fell, tumbling down in grapes at the sides of his long and stern face, like Northmen were wont to have, with a neatly cropped beard gracing his flat cheeks, powerful chin and around the ridges of his mouth. He regarded her with caution, still cutting into something without taking his eyes off of her, like he was poising an arrow at a deer and waiting for its response.

_No, not Father…_

Sansa had to blink a couple of times to get a better view of this man, and each time she did, Father’s face was being chipped away by her eyes, and in his stead came the face of this stranger. The resemblance between him and her dear father remained still. Long of face, dark-haired and watching her with such austere eyes. He looked so much like Father, it nearly made her heart burst and her eyes water how much King Eddard Stark bore resemblances to this man, as though he was rejuvenated and sent to retrieve her from her perilous journey.

The stranger was dressed in light armour and trousers tucked into his leather boots, the golden scales across his breastbone and shoulders casting back the candlelight around. His posture was formal and graceful but at ease on the chair, with one leg draped over the other. He looked familiar with courtesy, for her own brothers were raised with the exact same manner, but his was even more powerful than any lord she had ever seen. It was a token of his decorum, the result of years and years of it being hammered into his mind, not unlike herself.

He had the air of a highbred man, or at least, a man wealthy enough to afford his gear. Sansa did not allow it to impress her, though. She was used to lordlings and princes strutting around in pretty mail in an attempt to leave a lasting impression. Joffrey had his armour made out of pure gold. It was beautiful and ornamental, but from what she heard from blacksmiths, not very practical.

No, nothing that this man had was anything out of the ordinary.

Except for his irises.

His lustrous irises.

His eyes were a pair of violet jewels.

They were a shade like no other Sansa had ever seen in eyes. A deep and dark tint, almost black, and yet not, a hue of intense purple, like the juices of boysenberries perhaps? No, that was too light a colour. It was also not the shade of amethysts, they glimmered even deeper than that. Sansa did not know how to put her finger on it. They left her breathless, however, as the candlelight around gave them a glowing glint, burning like purple stars almost. The colour inside his eyes pooled and shifted, darkened and lightened, vivid and full of restrained emotion. She was utterly awestruck by them.

Sansa had read of only one kind of people who had purple colouring in their eyes; descendants of the great Valyrians.

Sansa forced herself out of her dwelling thoughts; daydreaming right now was not a wise course of action.

“Who are you and where am I? ” Sansa demanded. Were it not for the circumstances she found herself in, Sansa would have blushed at the lack of any courtesy in her tone, but she rather noted she cared not for the moment. Then, Sansa momentarily feared she had insulted the stranger across of her with her way of speech, and with it came a budding sense of fear. Sansa knew what men were capable of if slighted.

If he was cross with her, he did not show it, and just furrowed his eyebrows thoughtfully when he calmly spoke. “This is my ship. I don’t think I need to explain to you who I am, not before you tell me who it is you are. Or am I perhaps wrong to ask first who it is that I saved from the streets and allowed to sleep under a roof of mine?”

Now, Sansa did find it in herself flush a bit in abashment, her cheeks pinking a little. “No, you’re not wrong.”

He uncrossed his leg and firmly placed his feet upon the wooden floor. His elbows came to rest upon his knees as he leaned forward. “Well then? Who are _you_ exactly, if I may ask? Or rather, who is it that you’re claiming to be?” He looked sternly at Sansa.

She had to resist the urge to cringe at the strength of authority and burr within his voice, but it seemed that she failed in that regard, because the stranger continued in a much softer tone when he took stock how she retreated into her sheets. He looked a bit surprised, and perhaps even a tad contrite. “Forgive me, I didn’t intend to sound so harsh.”

Sansa timidly dared another hooded peek into his eyes. They still held the same stern glint, but they softened a little in their power. Eyes were a font of truth. The words of her queen mother came back to Sansa.

 _One can discern intent and will in eyes, if one looks carefully._ _The eyes never lie, Sansa. Whatever people do or say, their intentions always lie within their eyes._

Mother was right in that. Sansa had learned the hard way how to read the eyes of people. The knights of Storm’s End had taught her the first lesson. Joffrey and Cersei continued her tutoring, and from them, she had learned a great deal in the end. Sansa knew the eyes of cruel, vile and lecherous people, and the eyes of uncaring people, and those who pitied her yet dared not to raise a voice in her defence. Sansa knew how eyes could lit up with a sick and twisted sheen. Like wild hounds about to tear apart a piece of meat. But not this man. This man held no petty cruelty, salacious desire or plain apathy in his eyes. He looked at her with mild interest and concern. Nothing more. It was oh so comforting, to be seen with good eyes for a change.

“Do I frighten you, my lady?” He asked quietly, without preamble, the knife he was using placed on the table.

Yes, she wanted to say. No, she started to realize. She did not feel ill at ease, for some strange reason only the gods knew. Still, one could not help but still feel a small amount of unease in the presence of such a serious man.

Sansa squared her shoulders, straightened herself and gazed back at this stranger evenly. She adopted the haughty look of the princess she was, a face she reserved for formal occasions trying to leave an impression on visiting vassals of her king father. In truth, she tried to hide her unease behind a veneer of pride. “My name is Sansa Stark of House Stark, daughter to King Eddard and Queen Catelyn Stark, a Princess of Winterfell. I’m not so easily frightened.”

Whatever Sansa expected, it was not the curves of his lips pulling into a smile, even if as small as the eye of a needle, but it did disappear just as quickly, a small twitch of the lip up in the span of a second, vanished like summer snow before the sun. He stood up from his chair and supported his weight against the table. Now, Sansa had a better look at his overall figure and she had to swallow down when he did.

He looked lean and sinewy, with his chainmail pressing against the rims of his arm muscles and broad shoulders. He was shorter than Father, if only by a whit’s difference, but taller than herself. As he stood up, Sansa had a better view of him in the light and she damned the little flip of her stomach. This stranger was far more handsome than she thought.

There was such sophistication to his singular face that Sansa was not used to see in Northmen, for this man was without a doubt one of the North. His jaw was strong and set sharply, and his face lacked any child’s fat, hollowed and taut in their strain. A smile did not grace his face much, it appeared. The frown that creased his eyebrows looked so natural, like it was carved into his face by the gods’ decree. His nose was neither long nor short and as straight as a blade. His lips looked a little bit too full in their volume to be a man’s, though they still looked attractive, and his chin jutted a bit out with a cleft.

A couple of scars marred his face, the most prominent ones above his left eyebrow and three thin lines above his left cheekbone. Refined his face may be, but it was not unblemished, like Robb’s, or Joffrey’s. No, this was the face of someone who gained scars from fights, and not through mock tourney’s and friendly melees. If Sansa ever had to sketch a fierce warrior’s face, his was the first she would draw.

Sansa scolded herself for the tiny flutter of her heart. What was befalling her? Did she not learn from her mistakes? Repeat history almost too eagerly? Sansa nearly allowed that little girl she was in the past to come to surface again. The little girl whom had foolishly swooned over valiant knights and comely princes, the little girl who wishfully wanted to be the lady love of pretty lords or handsome kings, the little girl Sansa swore to never allow to blind her again from truth and verity.

Sansa knew this stranger to be a handsome man, with those curly locks, trimmed beard and sharp eyes, but he was hidden within the shades of the room and Sansa did not have the chance to eye him properly. Now she did. And Sansa was not prepared for how fair he was. The stranger was very pleasant to look at, not unlike the men she had seen before. Though he looked more conventionally handsome with the beard. But what had beauty taught her?

_All that glitters is not gold._

Joffrey and Renly looked fair too, very fair indeed. Joffrey had thick lips as well and Renly had eyelashes that women would claw each other’s eyes out for. Both shaved off the hairs across their faces from time to time. They did not fancy facial hairs, found it itchy and unbecoming they said. The both of them were not quite _handsome_ , though. They were _pretty_. Groomed and preened, with brushed hair and smooth hands, swathed in pretty clothes tailored for them, and skin touched with the scents of rosewater and breathes the smell of mint.

_Look at yourself, Sans, you’re falling for boys so pretty, they look like girls. Joffrey is even prettier than you!_

And in the end, it mattered not, for Joffrey had a cruelty to him most unnatural, and Renly had the courage of a craven.

Back in Winterfell, both her brothers and Arya had mocked Joffrey’s painting, when Sansa still took their playful japes as insults, and then, they mocked her that she was, for all intent and purposes, marrying a girl.

Sansa never understood the mockery of it all.

Now she did.

The girl she was back then was in love with _pretty_ boys and _pretty_ things. Pretty songs, and pretty flowers. Pretty tales, and pretty dresses. A silly girl whose thoughts dwelled in the clouds for too long.

Sansa had never come across a man who was not her father, Uncle Benjen, Ser Rodrik, his son Jory, or the head guardsman Alyn, that made her head turn back. Only for them she did, if affectionately, not because she found them attractive.

Sansa had never found herself attracted to a man before.

Until now.

Sansa gathered her bearings again, sitting more primly on the bed, chiding herself for her stupid lapse in awing a man she hardly knew. “I still don’t know who it is that stands across of me.”

He threw her an appraising look, contemplating something before he stood to his full length and folded his arms over his chest. “You sit before Jon Targaryen, Prince of Summerhall, son of Rhaegar Targaryen, Holy Valyrian Emperor and his Consort, Lyanna Targaryen.” Sansa let out another stunned gasp. Aunt Lyanna was his mother? That would mean, “If what you say is true, I’m your cousin.”

“My cousin…?”

Jon’s face hardened, his eyes squinting dangerously, and now, Sansa did feel a bit frightened. “That remains to be seen.”

Sansa blanched. “What do you mean? You would accuse me of lying about who I am?”

“Accusing? No, though I have no obligation to trust the words of a stranger, now do I?” He retorted.

“I don’t understand. Why would I deceive you about who I am?”

Jon had started to pace around the room. “Why, you ask? First, you would be my mother’s niece, kin to a powerful woman. Flaunting around that you’re related to the Empress Consort of New Valyria would bring you privileges you may or may not have any rights to. The imperial family will not suffer imposters living a life they have no right to. Second, asserting kinship to my mother is no idle claim. You would be seen as a means to hold leverage over my mother, should you fall in the wrong hands. You pose a danger to her and her position, and that, I cannot allow.”

Sansa frowned, unsatisfied. “That still doesn’t answer my question. Why would I deceive you?”

Jon stopped near the table, picking up something, not looking at her as he spoke. “I don’t know what your intentions are. I don’t know who you are. My reluctance to be persuaded comes simply from the fact that I have no knowledge on how to approach this situation.”

Sansa grew frustrated. “My name is Sansa Stark of Winterfell, I would never lie about who I am. How do you wish to be persuaded, if not by my word?”

“Proof would be helpful.” Jon commented idly.

A knot formed in the pits of her stomach. How was she to prove that she was Sansa Stark? He did not believe her on her word. And that was all she had.

“What would you have me do then to prove it?”

Jon shrugged, _shrugged_ for the gods’ sake, and indignation replaced the growing tension inside her. “You’re being frustratingly obstinate and vague!”

“Am I?”

“Yes, you are! You accuse me of lying, disregarding my words for falsities, and when I ask how it is that I can prove that my words are not wind, you merely shrug!” Sansa hissed.

“I’m not claiming that you speak lies, only that I remain unconvinced. My disregards towards you, such as it is, is of no import, because I won’t be the judge of your claim.” Jon responded.

She was even more confounded now; if not he, then who else? Who else was he referring to?

Sansa had no time to gather herself and question him further, for he sauntered over and presented a bowl right before her face. Nonplussed, she took it after a few seconds from his hands, and looked inside.

Her stomach flipped at what she saw, and the further realization behind it.

Inside were little stones of pomegranates, pieces of peeled grapefruit, and bits of finely cut lemons.

This had to be what Jon was doing earlier with the knife.

Her heart swelled, beating to an unfamiliar rhythm.

“Eat up, it’ll help you recover from your scurvy sooner.” He urged, handing her a silver spoon as well. Jon backed away and crossed his arms again. “I’m not unaware of what’s been going on around. People like to talk in the large cities. The winds carried with it rumours that another Storm King’s betrothed, yet again a Stark bride,” He snorted. “had forsaken her husband-to-be, and fled the premises of his castle. Transformed into a winged wolf and took flight. How exactly true that claim is, well, I’ve been always a bit cynical towards the world. The minstrels from Westeros say she is a girl comely enough to write songs about. A maid as red as autumn, with sunset in her hair.”

Jon pressed on. “Indeed, you are very fair to look upon, your locks got the correct shade, and your eyes are blue as water,” Sansa felt herself go flush with something akin to embarrassment, and something else. Pleasure? Delight? Yes, delight. She felt delighted, for some reason entirely beyond her. “but even if you match this bride’s appearance, who is to say who you truly are? There is only one person who can decide whether you speak true or false, and she is not here.”

Sansa looked up from her bowl straight into Jon’s eyes. “So where will you take me?”

He remained unflinching in his blank scrutiny of her. “To the capital, to my mother, the empress. She will decide over you and your claims.”

A thought struck Sansa. “If you find it so hard to put stock in my claim, why are you bothering then with bringing me to your mother? Why not simply cut me off?”

Jon looked surprised, grumbling thoughtfully as he strutted around again. He was weighting down her words, and his countenance ultimately acceded that she had a valid point. It pleased her to see that her point had come across.

Jon ran a hand through the tresses of his hair in thought. Sansa watched how his dark locks glided swiftly back in place, and the embarrassing thought had settled inside her that wished to know if his ringlets felt as soft as they looked.

_Only a scant few moments with a handsome man, and you’re already having improper thoughts about him. You are such an utterly hopeless fool._

“You have a point, I’ll concede that, but be that as it may, I still have to take precautions for this matter. First of all, it was your companion, Ser Davos, was it, who made this claim that you’re a Stark, my kin by my mother’s blood. Ser Davos explained to me what’s been going on, what it is that you have been through. Imagine my reluctance to believe it, so suddenly thrown on my plate. But that all was set aside when Ser Davos broached the subject of your diseases. In favour of tackling your illness, I decided to address this kin business at a later moment. There was no other alternative in sight, and so, I brought you here, to the _Balerion,_ for treatment _._ if I can help it, I will not allow innocents to rot away, kin or not. Aside from that, I see no real drawback for bringing you along to the capital.”

Sansa picked up a piece of lemon and demurely nibbled on the pulp, eyes downcast, her earlier side-tracking still making her feel bashful. “Would you care to explain?”

And he did. “If I take you with me to my mother, and she decides that you’ve been lying through your _teeth_ all along, we’ll simply throw you out on the street and wipe our hands off of you.” He explained, tone sharp and eyes hard. Sansa did not flinch this time, but did feel a chill go down her spine. Sansa was sure Jon would make good on that.

“However, if you spoke the truth, and I didn’t bother helping you.” His shoulders slumped, taking a more at ease posture. Jon’s eyes bore into her own, and the edge there that could have cut through steel itself simmered away entirely. Sansa’s heart skipped a beat at his soft look, cracking open slightly, though not of her own free will. “Then I allowed my cousin to die a horrible death. Scurvy is a cruel sickness, and it would have torn you apart. I value family above all else. Nothing holds more worth to me than their wellbeing. I’d walk through the very ruins of Old Valyria for them to not feel such pains _._ ”

_By the Mother’s kindness…_

Her heart felt like it might swell out of her ribcage. Sansa ducked her head, her hair curtaining her face. She could not meet his eyes, and instead lowered hers down to see how her fingers fiddled with a part of her sheet.

She would not be moved by his words. The warm, fuzzy and pleasant thrum of her blood, of her heart, was all just an illusion, a conjuration of her foolish mind.

Sansa refused to have this man, Jon Targaryen, apparently her cousin, though he did not seem convinced of it, touch a part of her heart she thought she had closed off for her own good. For too long did she suffer insincerities and false proclamations. Far too many times had she been suckered by honeyed words of sweet-speaking people trying to bring her guard down, and then break her confidence a moment later.

Most of all, Sansa dared not look into his purple eyes, because she feared, she desperately feared, out of a hundred people she had met, their winning smiles and sweet promises, Jon’s eyes alone looked more genuine than all of them together. And thus, she would fall prey under the spell of his soothing words. The litany of protection and strength behind his promise, the safe-haven she so desperately sought out in the dark. Sansa found she could easily trust him, and that had frightened her. Should Jon ever betray her, his would be most painful. A bruised heart could only heal so many times.

“For now, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, and trust in a stranger’s words.” Jon spoke again, bringing Sansa out of her reverie. “I got some other affairs to take care of. The room is yours, so use it as you like. I will have a servant girl come to your chambers not too long after I leave. She’ll draw you a bath if you wish for one, and bring some better clothes for you to wear. I have not yet seen how your friends are doing, so I think it’ll be best if I go and see to them as well.”

He made for the door, and was about to leave when he grinded to a halt and fixed his stare upon her again, seemingly forgetting something. “That reminds me,” Jon retracted his steps and halted at the edge of her bed. Agitation burned all over her, and that increased tenfold when he knelt before her and opened his hand. “may I have my cloak back?”

Sansa was for a moment dumbstruck, her eyes blown wide before her locks dangled from side to side with the shake her head, looking at the thin but warm piece of cloth wrapped around. Sansa opened it and brought the cloak before her eyes, rubbing her thumbs over the rich and inky black material.

It was not a bedlinen. It was Jon’s cloak.

“You may keep it if you wish…” He went on with an unsure frown, taking her silence for hesitation.

Sansa hoped the blush creeping up on her cheeks was concealed by the shadows. “N-no, the cloak is yours. I’d never presume and take something what is yours.” She said as she handed back his dark mantle hastily, which he tossed over his shoulders and tied in place.

Jon looked at her one more time, and then he faced away. “Try to get some rest, Princess Sansa Stark of Winterfell.” Jon nodded curtly and left the room.

The air had nipped, and Sansa wrapped her arms around herself, feeling cold all of a sudden. It seemed Jon had taken with him the warmth of the room. She felt it sizzle away.

Not long after, a knock on the door came and a feminine voice called out, asking permission. Indeed, a serving girl, or woman actually, as she looked twice her own age, entered when Sansa allowed her inside, and politely asked if she desired a bath.

Gods, how she wished for a bath. The entire sea voyage Sansa had not washed herself properly, part in fright of being discovered by someone lurking in the shadows, and part in disinclination, as other things preoccupied her mind too much to even entertain the thought of bathing. Now she had the comfort however, to clean herself in peace, and feel a little bit more as a dignified princess.

And so, Sansa found herself within a bronze tub filled with steaming water, breathing out blissfully whenever she cupped a handful of water and splashed her face. She teared up at the sweet smell stirring up from the hot water. It had been so long since the scent of precious roses and lovely lilies filled her nostrils. Sansa remembered the hotsprings in Winterfell and how good they felt to swim through. Bless the Seven, for they had given her some respite, it seemed, after moonturns of toil.

A window nearby gave way for the moonlight to peer in, and Sansa discovered that the sun had already set and the moon had taken over as light bringer. Sansa gazed at the moon with wonder, rubbing her arms all the while. Her thoughts strayed, no more aware of washing herself repeatedly over the same spot.

In a way, her plan had succeeded better than she could have ever hoped for. Yes, Jon did not look inclined to believe she was his kin, and there was the prospect of trying to convince her aunt, but still, her heart had felt less heavy with frustration. At least, Jon was not cruel nor harsh.

Sansa knew her decision to flee the Stormlands towards the Holy Valyrian Empire was impulsive and not well thought through, but it seemed the gods had shown her great favour during her trek. Sansa convinced herself of that. She had the blessings of the gods to escape Joffrey and her marriage to him. Now, she only hoped the gods were also kind enough to help her build the path back home again.

And then there was her cousin himself, Prince Jon Targaryen, a man whose frown could very well freeze the blood of a red priest, but whose eyes could very well be divine gems of their own. He was certainly a topic on her mind.

Sansa took her time bathing, a full hour of scrubbing, washing, kneading and massaging her own flesh until she felt as willowy as dough made for pastries.

Sansa sighed contentedly at each dab when she started drying herself off. The soft little blades of wool caressed her skin and the scars marring it, the criss-cross patterns of silver lines stretching and shrinking every time she moved. Joffrey’s gifts to her, she thought sadly. Some parts of her body had still yellow bruises that were not allowed to heal correctly due to constantly being on her feet and the absence of proper treatment.

Once, Sansa thought beauty was everything, because she was told as such by many opinions. Lords all over the North and Riverlands, whenever they came for her nameday, or Father’s, or any of her family’s, always had the same compliment ready on their tongue for her.

_The Princess Sansa always looks so radiant. The Princess Sansa always looks so beautiful. So ladylike. So desirable. So perfect._

And she took them in stride.

Each of their flatteries was another stone added to the tall tower that was her conceit, its tip even came to scrape the sky one day. And then, when she was to wed a man, Sansa expected nothing less but to be treated like a queen. Rightfully so, but when not given what you expect, the truth cuts deeper than any sword. And her truth had cut deep. Sansa’s tower had crumpled and left a pile of brittle confidence in its wake. Joffrey had shown Sansa how thick armour of beauty really was. How useful it was against the metal fists and sword flats of cruelty. Mother said a lady’s armour were courtesies, but courtesies never saved her from the pains either.

Boros Blount’s fists were hard insofar as his gauntlets went, as he never did really put much weight into his punches. Slothful Clayton Suggs did not regularly polish the sides of sword, fortunately, so his strikes left cuts, yes, but no deep slashes. Meryn Trant’s did. Ser Meryn was the worst of them all. He was no true knight, but a pretender. Meryn Trant defiled every sacred knightly tenant.

Ser Meryn Trant did not love her, Sansa knew that. She was not bothered by that, his love was meaningless. She also knew he hated her neither as well. Trant felt _nothing_ for Sansa, as if she was only a…thing to him. Hatred was not the enemy of love, she had discovered then. It was apathy, for feeling hatred meant someone still meant something to you.  

“Milady? Do you wish for me to brush your hair?” She heard the  homely serving woman, Hela, call out, who placed a gown on the bed.

“No, thank you. I will do it myself. You may leave, if you wish.” Sansa answered, and the door closed again when the servant woman left curtly. Sansa got herself seated at an oaken vanity table and started skimming through her auburn tresses with a white brush. A glimmer had returned a bit to her hair she had noted. No more they looked like the colour of dead autumn leaves. It made Sansa smile to see her hair once more a bit alive again.

Sansa had no patience to brush her hair until it looked like shining bronze again, and when all tangled knots were smoothened out, she placed the brush back, braided her hair in a simple Northern plait and rose from her chair. Sansa donned the simple blue dress laid out for her, and went for the door. She did not want to be cooped up inside this room for eternity. Sansa had not seen either Ser Davos or Ashlyn for too long, and she began to worry for her companions.

The halls were cast in a light shadow, the veil of darkness not thick enough to remain unpierced thanks to the torches placed about. Sansa put on her little slippers and padded of. To where, she did not know. A pang of regret hit Sansa in her chest, wishing she did not so easily dismiss the servant woman from earlier. Now she was aimlessly roaming through an unknown ship, with corridors as long as the Long Night.

She considered calling out, but that would have been crude of her. Mayhaps people were already in sleeping their bunks, and Sansa did not wish to disturb them from their slumber. So, she trudged forth, keeping your voice to herself and only the little taps of her slippers keeping her company.

And just as she was about to round a corner, Sansa collided with something solid and cold. It rattled, and Sansa knew it to be armour by its sound.

“Forgive me! I didn’t look where I–” Sansa yelped, but the words died in the her mouth. She stiffened, fear overtaking her. In front of her stood a burly man glowering down on her, his armour big enough to nearly take the entire berth of the hall in. Sansa’s blue eyes shot up to his face, and found herself regret that immediately. She thought the scars on her arms and shoulders were not pleasant to look upon. She was wrong.

If Sansa had bothered, she would have noticed that the right side of his face looked normal enough, gaunt and cheekbones sharp with eyes below thick eyebrows, but the eyes never hunt after that what looks ordinary. They always gaze upon the irregular, whether pleasant or not.

Her eyes were firmly transfixed on his left. The left side of his face was seared and puckered black, with red craters around and tiny bits of bone sticking out from his cheek. His ear was disfigured, a shrivelled piece of stumpy flesh. The scar looked hideous, running down from his face all the way towards his throat. If it looked badly already, Sansa did not wish to know how it must feel to carry such a scar.

“What are you staring at, girl?” A soft sound left her lips, a whimper she realized, and this man’s glare burned hotter at her lack of response. “Well? Lost your tongue to a cat, or something?”

“Clegane! You’re scaring the girl, for R’hllor’s sake!” Another man hollered. He was round-bellied and tall, with a goatee on his face and swathed in flapping robes of the colour crimson. An amulet hang around his neck, bright and burning; R’hllor’s symbol, Sansa remembered. A red priest. This man had a friendly face on his person.

He sprinted up to her and the other man, Clegane, a Westerosi name she noted, and stopped between them. “Why don’t you go and search for a bone to gnaw on, Sandor? I’ll bring the girl to His Highness and the other ones. Go, move along now, you’ve frightened her pale enough.” He pushed away the grumbling Westerosi, whose stride made her jump each and every time as he walked away, mumbling under his breath all the way.  

The red garbed man smiled down at her. “Don’t worry, girl, he means well. Prince Jon has a tight leash on his sworn guardian, and my lord will sooner cut off his own hand than allow someone to harm guests under his roof, much less his own hound. Sandor isn’t the merriest of the bunch, but the world has shown us far worse than his ilk.” He gestured for her to follow him, and Sansa did after a few seconds of hesitation. He did say he would bring her to Jon.

“May I ask who it is you are?” Sansa asked after a few seconds. The red priest halted, which made Sansa stop too, and he smiled down at her, some teeth missing and cheeks round and rosy.

“Thoros, girl, of Myr. My voice serves the Faith of R’hllor and my hand serves His Highness Prince Jon as one of his sworn swords, though these days, I’ve been more swordsman than priest. Oh well, I guess I never did give piety a chance to settle, heh.”

Sansa curtsied. “A pleasure, Lord Thoros of Myr, I am Sansa Stark.”

“Hah! No lord or anything of the likes, little lady, just Thoros. Wouldn’t want to upset real and proper lords now. And whatever was that little dip of yours, eh?” He laughed as they started walking again.

“You mean the curtsy?” Sansa said.

“Curtsy? Is that how you call it? What strange customs you Andals have. Westerosis sure are an interesting people. Full of propriety, devotion and manner. I could learn a few things from such pious folks.” Thoros replied sarcastically.

“I am not an Andal, uh, Thoros.” Sansa spoke, unsure. It felt strange to speak to a man so plainly. Andals were southrons, and Sansa was decidedly a Northern princess.

“No? Huh, on second thought, maybe you’re right. Yes, you don’t act like those cloister nuns ringing a bell every time a sin is done. You’ve got the same look as the prince in your eyes. As the empress even.”

“T-the same look…?” Sansa stammered.

Thoros nodded sagely, a smile still on his smooth face “A child of the ancient ones. Some of that Andal blood runs strong through your veins, yes, but you’ve got something else too, something older, something deeper.”

“How can you tell?”

“Perks of being a priest of R’hllor, I guess. We have our ways of looking. And besides, the eyes never lie, do they?”

Sansa gasped.

“How did you–”

“Brynden the Blackfish. He’s kin of yours, no?” Sansa nodded, and his smile changed into a full grin. “That old trout and I go quite some time back. You think he learned that pretty saying from a book? Probably never touched one in his entire life, hah! I’ve not only been in Essos, y’know? Travelled far and wide across the plains of this world, trying to ‘spread’ the word of R’hllor, or so I said. I fought side by side with your granduncle though, in the Liberation of Riverrun twenty years ago, back when my lord was nothing more but a seed of his emperor father.” Thoros looked right into her eyes. “I recognize a Tully when I see one. Your granduncle was a stubborn warrior who knew not the meaning of quitting, jolly and always up for a drink. Then there’s that boy, Edmure, though I reckon he’s now a man. It’s been so long. I wonder how they’ve been doing after all these years.”

Sansa wondered as well. She had no seen kind Uncle Brynden for almost four years. The last time was on Robb’s nameday when her brother turned ten-and-five, and Uncle Brynden and Edmure, alongside Edmure’s wife Roslyn and his three children, came to humour their family up north. So long had she not seen any of her family. It brought a stab of sadness to her heart.

But Sansa perked up then. “So you are sure of my lineage, Thoros?”

He raised both eyebrows. “Why would I not be? From what I remember from House Tully, they all have red-brown hair and blue eyes. You match that image like a glove.”

“But I am not a Tully of Riverrun.” Not fully at least, she thought. “I am a Stark of Winterfell, the eldest daughter of King Eddard Stark.”

“Ah, I see now. Yes, the ancient ones from the North. I can see that being imaginable. Eddard Stark married the daughter of Hoster Tully, in honour of the alliance his brother couldn’t uphold. You’re saying you’re one of his children?”

“Yes! Yes, that is exactly what I am saying! Do you believe me?”

Thoros laughed. “I have no reason to doubt your words.”

“Then perhaps you could speak to Prince Jon?” She said.

“Whatever about?” Thoros snorted good-naturedly, and they turned a corner where a door at the far end seemed ajar. Voices came out of that place, familiar voices.

“Prince Jon is my cousin, but he believes me not, not completely at least. I have tried to bring him to other thoughts, but he refuses to recognize my words for the truth. He says only his mother can verify my claim whether I’m a Stark or not.” Sansa looked imploringly to Thoros. “Could you perhaps have a word with him? Bring him to see reason?”

“Reason? I don’t think I see a point in bringing my lord to other thoughts.” Thoros chuckled. They were halfway there, and Sansa felt tension rise within her.

“But you said tha–”

“Princess, forgive me for interrupting, but your situation is much simpler than you make of it. Prince Jon is a clever boy, he does things with a reason. If he, right now, refuses to acknowledge you as kin, and insists that his mother decides, let him. He might have his reasons. His Highness grew up in that cesspit called the imperial court, of course he’s guarded with his trust. Prince Jon’s been raised by his mother to question everything, and find meaning behind everything. And that is not even mentioning the empress. She is as beautiful as she is stern; her trusts doesn’t come so easily. And ask yourself, is that such a bad thing? To question if the food isn’t poisoned before taking a bite?”

No, Sansa supposed. That was a very practical mindset, actually.

Besides, Jon never really voiced out threats that would merit worry, if she was to be honest. In contrast, Jon went out of his way to make her feel comfortable and healthy again, going as far as cutting fruit for her even in his spare time, something a servant could have done just the same. His actions contrasted his apparent reluctance to help her. It was quite endearing, and it brought a small sense of comfort to her. Perhaps Thoros was right.

“If you say so, Thoros. His Highness has not brought me any unease, at least. He’s been nothing but polite, though a bit too stern and rough around the edges for my likings.”

“Hah! How right you are, princess! His Highness can be quite the curmudgeon if in a foul mood. Though, he’s been fighting scum like the Dothraki for five years, so I reckon his temper would sour witnessing the atrocities those barbarians inflict upon their victims.”

“Dothraki?” She read about the horselords of the Great Grass Sea. Wild folk keen on pillaging and plundering.

“A story for another time perhaps.” Sansa and Thoros grinded to a halt near the door, and before they entered, the red priest spoke with a winning smile. “Trust the prince, my lady, he’s a good and forthright man, and his mind is quicker than most. Prince Jon’s not much for religion, like me, but if there is a god he worships, its name is honour. If he would ever take a lover, her name would be duty. And when he gets a son? He’d probably name him family. He’ll take good care of you, mark my words.” Thoros assured her. Sansa smiled a little, mulling over the words sounding so much like the words of House Tully. _Family, Duty, Honour._

Yet, Sansa was not truly convinced of her cousin. She needed to know what Ashlyn thought of him. Jon seemed genuine and true, but such truths could be just a mask. Sansa had to admit, doubt still clouded her mind. She could not be held liable for that; trust was something not so easily given after all, something she learned from Thoros, and passed experience.

Thoros opened the door, and they both entered without much noise. Inside the room, which was furnished with countless of priceless-looking furniture, were Ser Davos strolling around and marvelling at anything that caught his fancy, Prince Jon sitting on a divan with a book in hand, and Ashlyn, who was leaning against the glass of a window and sleeping on the cushions placed upon the windowsill with a blue sheet keeping her warmed up.

A grand chandelier hang above, a ball of white light, like an entrapped moon, shedding down beams of white below in rays upon rays. Several bookshelves were placed against the wall on the left, full to the brim with tomes of a variety of colours. On the right, there was a table with fruits, cheeses, sweetmeats and skins of wine and other liquors. This had to be the living quarters of the ship, the _Balerion_ she reminded herself.

A thick Myrish carpet made of crimson fabric was laid over the wooden floor, with the most intricate of patterns, as colourful as the rainbow, running through them; shapes like horses, harpies, suns and moons, and writhing flames and trickling teardrops, many symbols Sansa knew, and knew not of. She recognized the sigils of the Great Houses of Westeros, like the Golden Lion of Casterly Rock, the Blue Falcon of the Eyrie, the Gilded Rose and Greenhand of Highgarden, the Quartered Banner of Orkmont, the Speared Sun of Sunspear, the Silver Trout of Riverrun, the Black Stag of Storm’s End. Her heart contracted a bit at its sight. Last was the Grey Direwolf of Winterfell, her beloved sigil. A great red dragon flew over them all, enveloping them all amidmost the span of his wings. Sansa lowered herself and traced the lines of the direwolf with her fingers. A small jerk of heart she felt, and that familiar feeling of longing to go home came to her unbidden.

“How much you’d reckon this vase would be worth, Your Highness?” Sansa heard Ser Davos ask, who was hovering over a magnificent piece of blue porcelain, gently gliding a finger over its surface.

Jon turned a page from the book he was reading, not looking up. “It was a gift of the YiTish delegates to my father. I know not its actual worth, but it is not as precious as they tried to made it seem. The dignitaries gloated that it was a seven thousand year old piece, bringing good fortune and favourable winds to its owner, and whoever received it should consider himself blessed. The usual diplomatic talk, of course. The day we received it, my sister, the cynic she is, got it appraised. Turns out it was made of naught but Qartheen ceramic. Pricy still, but that is the same as confusing gilded bronze for gold. The YiTish delegates were scandalized we had the audacity, yes, _they_ actually acted affronted, to question something from their great God-Emperor, as though _they_ were the ones wronged. It all turned into a great diplomatic faux-pas. Quite bizarre, now that I remember it.”

Ser Davos chortled from his place, and went on with his little trek to sate his curiosity. Sansa caught Jon’s stare and he gazed over the scarlet carpet she was caressing right now.

“That carpet was made by Myrish textile weavers as a wedding gift to Emperor Daeron I when he married the daughter of the Myrish First Magister. Some say it was a subliminal message from the Myrmen to incite Daeron to invade Westeros. A great deal of Dornish lords and Reach lords owed significant depths to Myr, and after much squabble between them, the Westerosis refused to pay in an act of spite. In kind, Myr promised them their righteous wrath, and petitioned the emperor to act on their behalf, who had just returned from his campaign against the Harpy’s Daughters. The victory, pyrrhic as it was, over the Slaver Cities had enflamed Daeron’s blood. So, spurred by ambition and thirst to drink further glories, Emperor Daeron sailed for the shores of South Westeros, eager to gain more glories and whatnot, with two hundred ships and twenty thousand man at his back. To forever carve his name in the vestiges of Targaryen history. But Fate is a fickle mistress. She smiles at you one time, then frowns another. She decided pull the strings to a different tune. The fleet was caught in a storm and smashed upon the rocks around the Arbor Isle. Two hundred ships sailed out that day, and three sennights later, only thirty returned, none of them carrying the young emperor. An entire campaign, snuffed out in the blink of an eye. All lands Daeron had conquered were lost within a moon’s turn.”

Jon forcefully closed the book with a hard thunk. “Have you rested enough, Princess Sansa?” He stared at her pointedly, coming up from his seat to get a cup and pour in an orange tinted nectar. Jon brought it over and placed it into her hands. “Pressed orange juice mixed with curative herbs. On advice of the physician. You’re ought to drink it.” She had no reason to refuse it, so with a small word of gratitude, Sansa took from his hands and drank it all in one go after nursing it gingerly for a while. Beside her Thoros smirked knowingly at his prince, but Jon did not seem entertained, returning to his divan.

Ashlyn seemed to rouse from her place on the windowsill, and darted her eyes around before they settled on Sansa. “P-princess…! You’ve awoken!” She scraped, her mind still fogged with a whit of sleep. Ashlyn meant to stand up, but Sansa was quicker and came to her instead. The windowsill seemed to be spacious enough for another sit on.

Ashlyn scooted over to make room for her and Sansa nestled herself beside her whilst Ashlyn opened her sheet and threw it over them, swathing them both in its warmth.

Sansa leaned into her friend, settling her head against the shoulder of her raven-haired friend and whispered. “What do you make of him, dear Ash?” 

Ashlyn’s raven locks hid away a part of her face, and she in turn whispered back in a conspiratorial breath. “He’s as unreadable as High Valyrian to me. This dragon prince makes me squirm under his stare. Can’t seem to pin him or his expressions. All steel and no emotions. He’s also a bit scary, but in a slightly assuring way? I don’t know, he reminds me of Prince Stannis with those eyes, distant, but just. He did save us, so that has to speak for somethin’. If anythin’, he doesn’t seem like a dangerous man. He does frown and frown and frown at every turn and glance…he’ll turn older than Ser Davos at this rate.”

Sansa held back  a snort. “I know what you mean. No malice comes off of him, but neither does he look like an especially kind man. What are we to do now?” Sansa bit the inside of her cheek in wonder.

“What can we do, milady? We’re under his mercy now, eatin’ his fruits, walkin’ his linens and takin’ his cures. No, there isn’t much besides see how it all unfolds.” Sansa opened her mouth, but promptly closed it when she saw the impatient frown on Jon’s face.

Sansa felt her cheeks burn, abashed. How was it possible that whatever Jon said, it served to make her fluster? The deep tonality laced into his voice was so strong and powerful, Sansa felt her palms go clammy, and her knees shake just a little so. Even more embarrassing, Sansa’s stomach felt so warm, as though a piece of molten rock was placed there to crackle her body to a smouldering mess.

“Well, now that Princess Sansa is here, it’s time for me to explain what will happen from now on. You all will accompany me to the capital of the Empire, so that you,” He pointed at Sansa. “can explain yourself to my mother.” Jon then turned his eyes to Davos. “I reckon you and the other girl want to stay by the Princess Sansa’s side and try to aid her testimony. So, consider yourself irrevocably part of her fellowship. The journey will take a little longer than a fortnight. The three of you have full freedom of the ship, so the _Balerion_ is yours to explore and use at your pleasure. Thoros here will show you to your quarters should you desire to retire for the night. If you have any other questions, I’ll answer them as I see fit.”

Jon grew stern again, or rather, adopted the usual look he had over his face; the frown of a white walker. “Don’t misunderstand; the freedom you have is no sign of trust. Nothing on this ship escapes my notice. The guards as well as the sailors are my ears and eyes, and won’t hesitate to bring to me the slightest bit of suspicious behaviour. You three don’t strike me as a particularly scheming lot, but then again, they say that those who look the most innocent carry the darkest minds. Keep yourself and your intentions truthful, and I’ll endeavour to be your friend.”

With a flutter of his mantle, Jon marched out, but not before he gave a parting glance. “The _Balerion_ will leave the harbour at first light. Have a good night’s rest, and I will see you all on the morrow to break our fasts.” And then Jon left, his retreating footsteps growing dimmer, and dimmer, and dimmer, until no more, Sansa could hear him walk away.

Sansa gazed at her friend and Ser Davos, guilt making her face frown in worry as she took in the knight’s nervous padding around. Ser Davos looked at ease, but his eyes belied the tension brewing inside him. He did not expect to be thrown into this further, and was probably brooding how to go through it all. After all, this was supposed to be simple, bringing a princess back into the folds of her kin. How did it all turn so complicated? Ashlyn’s body trembled faintly and looked a bit ashen in the face, but most probably, she was just going through her recovery. Sansa herself was bone-weary, and she could sympathize with what Ashlyn was feeling now.

Sansa’s shoulders slacked, a throbbing pain suddenly overcoming her, and it was then that she realized how much the ring of her neck ached with tension. She moaned as she glided a hand to ease the flesh, not realizing until now how strenuous she upheld herself, and when her prince cousin decided to part for his own chambers did she release the stress on her body.

Jon was definitely not a good influence on her. Her mind, her heart, her body, everything strained whenever Jon made himself present. Was it because of the novelty between them? This new revelation that his cousin suddenly appeared out of thin air and her presence landing on top of his lap?

_There is no point hiding behind excuses. You know very well why you feel like you’re walking on a silk thread whenever your prince cousin struts around._

Curse her treacherous heart for being so utterly easy to fluster.

Jon himself looked a tad bit on edge as well now that she thought about him; those bruisy bags underneath his shimmering eyes, a perpetual frown marring his face and the way his hands clenched and unclenched into tight fists.

He was nervous.

Whatever for, Sansa did not know.

But then again, Jon Targaryen _was_ a Prince of New Valyria. A son of the Holy Valyrian Emperor, ruler of the mightiest nation in the world, who could very well call himself the master of the known world. For sure, that meant a lot of burden also rested upon Jon’s shoulders.

Well, she would come to figure it out eventually, Sansa reasoned.

She had a fortnight to spend with her cousin on the same boat, enough time to start learning more about him.

Sansa intended to fall in his good graces as well as possible.

He might very well be her last hope.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A declaration, a discovery and almost the end of a journey.

  **The Holy Valyrian** **Emperor**  

 

 **With the conclusion of Aegon’s War of Restoration, the newly self-proclaimed** **Emperor** **of the Valyrians stood poised before a precarious question.**  

 **The matter of religion.**  

 **In the days of yore, the Blood of Old Valyria had no special consideration for religious ideologies. Under the wing of the Freehold, many faiths were accepted and deities were allowed to be worshipped, from the Moonsingers and Bearded Priests to the Black Goat of Qohor and the Lord of Light. They were equ** **ally false in their eyes anyway,** **mere primitive beliefs to give** **meaning** **to those simpler of mind. Yet, it served a useful purpose for the lower castes of society.**  

 **With the promise of a better life to come after a purposeful death, the population remain** **ed** **culled and obedient. On the other hand, accusing their overlords of heresy or sacrilege** **proved to be difficult if the gods the** **y** **believed in were named very muc** **h after the creatures** **they commanded** **.**  

 **Syncretism was a policy the Freehold had plied.**  

 **And the people was none the wiser of any change.**  

 **Aegon the Restorer soon took advantage of the fruits it laboured.**  

 **Across Essos, after centuries of** **zealotry and conversion, there wa** **s but one religion with no** **rival** **to challenge its pre-e** **minence. W** **hose very follower’s base could supplement the High Priest an army of committed zealots and wage war with the Nine Cities at the same time.**  

 **The Faith of R’h** **l** **lor.**  

 **Central to this belief** **was** **the element of fire. Fire was life, fire was power, fire wa** **s supreme divinity. It was why the Followers of R’hllor were so easily swayed to lay down their swords before the feet of the Valyrians** **and kneel** **, for they were the m** **asters of dragons, and dragons we** **re fire made flesh.**  

 **Aegon the Restorer, in a bid to ever increase his position as ruler of his new** **ly born** **empire, consecrated himself and his sister-** **wife Rhaenys** **in the Temple of** **the Lord of** **Light and had himself bath** **e** **in Balerion’s fire. Unburnt** **, he** **emerged, clothes and hairs scorched** **away, but not his flesh, and it was then, the High Priest and his most devout prostrated before the Targaryen** **emperor** **and proclaimed him divine.**  

 **Since then, House Targaryen had** **been heralded as a** **divine** **family by the followers of R’hllor,** **with a right to rule** **sanctioned by the Lord of Light himself** **. Aegon the Restorer changed his title from ‘** **Emperor** **of the Valyrians’ to ‘Holy Valyrian** **Emperor** **’, bringing temporal and religious authority to his hand.**  

 **And with it, absolute power.**  

* * *

  **~Lyanna had always been a girl led by a fiery passion, and that dangerous fire was only stoked when the dragon prince came to court.**

**Rhaegar Targaryen, as those dragonlords were wont to do in their stories, came with wings of fire.**

**In his flight, he left them all scorched and burned .**

**Looking back to it, mayhaps Eddard should have said or done something rather than playing the silently pondering friend and brother he usually tended to be. Eddard knew of what kind of steel Robert was forged. Everybody knew, by the gods, even the ewes and the sows knew. All of them knew as well what kind of blood coursed through Lyanna’s and Brandon’s veins. And yet, Eddard breathed naught about it.~**

* * *

**NEW VALYRIA**  

 **RHAENYS II**  

 

Painting was what brought Rhaenys peace these days. The intrigues of court, her watch over Aegon, appeasing Father. It was too much after so long. Such a weight could not be carried for very long without the reward of momentary respite.

To sit down before a piece of canvas, her palette poised on her hand and her fingers holding the brush that brought her thoughts into existence was a passion in her life with few equals. Many a painting she had made now adorned the halls of the Scarlet Palace; from Aegon I’s Coronation to the Great Council of 101 After the Restoration, to the Black Regency of Prince Daemon Blackfyre.

Peace and Rhaenys were estranged from each other. Stars never meant to meet. Wherever peace went, Rhaenys did not, for they were attracted to polar sides. They were forbidden lovers, and only stolen moments between them could occur. Rhaenys only had a few moments of time during the day where she was truly at peace. While painting, for instance.

“Rhae! The Elder Council is about to hold its session in a scant few moments! If you wish to attend, make haste and come!”

And there it was, the bubble of tranquillity pricked open with a silent prod, and Rhaenys was brought back to the ever changing world of the imperial capital.

“I’ll be there in a moment, don’t wait for me, Dany.” Rhaenys said, adding a few brushes of paint to her latest work.

In commemoration of her late grandmother, Rhaenys wanted to bring life to Rhaella Targaryen on this unbleached piece of cloth. A painting of her mother was too soon, Rhaenys had found, but thoughts of her late grandmother, she could manage. One day, if her heart was steeled enough, she would do Mother.

Already, she had given Uncle Aemon, Father and Aegon their personal portraits. Jon and Lyanna she had planned to do together when Jon returned to the imperial palace; for certain, her brother must have changed drastically in those five years of absence from a lanky boy to a strapping young man.

Dany’s portrait was in the making, but something had brought her pause in fashioning it, however; the paint on it had grown hard and cold, unfinished, maculate. So, she found herself starting on another to reimagine inspiration.

Rhaenys had little to work with, much to her chagrin; only Father’s melancholic musings and Uncle Aemon’s fond memories. But Uncle Aemon gave her a telling clue how Rhaenys was supposed to imagine her beloved grandmother.

_Every time I gaze upon your aunt, my heart constricts in pain, a sweet, but rueful stab that brings me back to elder days. Rhaella had no peers in her younger days when it came to beauty and kindness. She was a white lily, tender and sweet, smiling so beatifically in the rays of the dawn, even the sun burned with envy. She was the sweetest of all Targaryen princesses that I have lived through. The sweetest, and also the most tragic of them all. The purest people are doomed for the greatest tragedies, my dear girl. She did not deserve her fate._

“Rhae! It’s only moments away before the Speaker opens the assembly of the Elder Council!” Rhaenys heard Dany shout from across the hall.

“Didn’t I tell you not to wait for me, sweet Dany?” She replied back, setting her palette and brush on a nearby table and admiring her work for a second. In due time, it would be a painting breathing life almost.

Daenerys came in, all grace and beauty with her silky white dress fluttering in the slight breeze of the midday wind.

She simpered with amusement. “I see, so this is what has kept you so preoccupied.”

Rhae’s atelier was splotched with paint, some recently used cloths lying astray over racks, and numerous canvases still not touched with a single colour. Two unfinished paintings were placed in the corner, and three smaller paintings showing landscapes, mountains and lakes, ordinary pieces mostly, graced the far edges of the room. Daenerys tiptoed across, mindful of any colourful paint lying about. She planted her hands on Rhaenys’ shoulders when she stopped behind her chair, crouching so she could lean in and kiss her niece’s cheek.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re avoiding us all. I haven’t seen you oft about since my brother announced Jon’s return.”

“A great deal has happened since that time.” Rhaenys sighed, her back pressing further into her chair.

“Rhaegar, I presume?”

“Why must you always conclude that whatever ails my mind, Father is the source of it?” Rhaenys frowned good-naturedly.

“Because, dear Rhae, nothing in this world breaks stone except for water and wind. Rhaegar does not hold back in bringing you lamentation and the exploits of my precious little nephew are worthy of a couple of courtly guffaws. My brother’s unjustified barking towards you is what bothers me most, however.” Daenerys slid her fingers through her black locks, soothing her scalp with her tender movements. “For all his wisdom and virtues, Rhaegar can be cruel sometimes, unbeknownst to himself.”

“Not cruel.” Rhaenys disagreed. “Cold, perhaps, but Father has never been cruel in life.”

Dany hummed, her fingers still scratching the scalp pleasantly. “A dragon with ice in his veins. You’d expect Lyanna to be the colder between the two, yet she burns as bright as any star. What a queer world we live in, where dragons breathe ice and wolves run with fire in their tracks.”

They remained for a while like that, Dany rubbing her scalp, and Rhaenys closed her eyelids, leaning back in her chair to enjoy the ministrations. Thank whatever deity existed in the world for Dany, for she could lift burdens with the tips of her fingers.

Rhaenys found Dany’s soft hands with her own and laced their fingers together, stopping her. She brought one to her lips and kissed it. “Thank you, Dany. You never fail to make me feel loved again.”

She heard the pleased snort, and Dany leaned over her, placing a soft peck to her lips. “For you, I’ll do anything to ease your aches. You’re nearly as dear to me as Jon.”

“Nearly? I’m offended. How can I not be the first in your heart? What has my little brother done to deserve such devotion?” Rhaenys complained warmheartedly, standing from her chair to see the smile unfurl further over her aunt’s prettily pinked lips.

“That’s for me to know, and for you to guess. Now, we have to make haste and change you from your splotched garbs. As magnificent as you may look in them, I doubt the Council will appreciate the floor stained with paint dripping from your dress.”

Rhaenys tittered curtly, and soon, in only a few short moves, she discarded her smudged painting dress, washed her hands and face clean, and sauntered arm in arm with Dany across the halls, her clothes matching Dany’s immaculate gown in terms of finery; little beads of black pearls glittered from the hem of her silk sleeves, jingling at every step she took, while the ends of her crimson dress softly grazed the skin above her knees. Her back was kept bare while the bodice was embroidered with writhing flames.

Already, a handful of Blackguards marched behind them, drowning out the soft pattering of their silken shoes with their heavy greaves.

Rhaenys and Daenerys exited the confines of the Emperor’s Palace, stepping through the lush imperial gardens. They both basked in the sweetness of the flowers surrounding them. Here, Rhaenys could find herself a modicum of peace as well.

Aside from painting, walking through the hedge mazes and flower gardens brought her tranquillity. Listening to the singing birds, hearing the wind sigh and moan, watching the white clouds and cobalt sky, breathing in the fresh air.

This was where the Lord of Light intended for people to find peace. Not in prayers, or temples, or their beds, here. And Rhaenys was not alone in her love for the imperial gardens. Dany, Egg, Jon and she had spent the greater parts of their girl– and boyhood in these gardens, playing to their heart’s content whenever the Empire did not seek to scrutinize their every action. It was where their love blossomed among the flowers, within the bushes and between the trees.

Sweet, innocent childhood, oh how Rhaenys misses those times.

A great building of sombre stone, greyer than the fog around Old Valyria, soon entered the periphery of their sight, great dragon statues the size of elephants looming over them intimidatingly with their wings open and their jaws spread wide, judging every passer-by with their stone eyes whether they belonged here or not. At each statue was a Blackguard standing statuesquely in their own right, not a single movement in their dead watch.

The building was round and monolithic, carved from a single piece of rock, with various pillars supporting the upper levels and the dome overarching the entirety of it. The Elder Council Chambers stood as a symbol of imperial power amongst the other buildings. Power not represented by the imperial family.

The Elder Council Chambers came close sooner than Rhaenys wished. For just a little moment, she wished for the quiet to continue, to smell the hyacinths and wildflowers and cornflowers. Upon entering that building, the Empire and its demands would come crawling back into her mind.

Rhaenys sighed plaintively; all good things never lasted long, sadly.

The Elder Council Chambers were the largest location in the imperial quarters. Carved out in a separate part of the imperial quarters, the Elder Council congregated here annually to discuss the Empire’s affairs of state. Grand enough to fit hundreds of denizens, but only nine sumptuous chairs for the councillors to sit on, some odd chairs around for advisors and one grand seat for the emperor.

The Blackguards allowed them entry, pushing open the gilded doors, and Rhaenys oversaw the great crowd mingling amongst one another.

This was where the ballad of politics was sung.

Before the start of every Council session, the shrill voices of the present freeholders would drum into the ears of their Councillors petitions upon petitions, in due time presented before the emperor if they could get their hands on him. The Elder Council was, after all, not ruled by its own, but by the coin and interest of high nobles working behind the curtains. A despicable show of vultures it was, with their nagging and harrowing. Never was it clear whether these officials worked in the interest of the Empire’s centralization or the sovereignty of the Nine Cities. Or perhaps even only their own interests.

Once, the creation of the Elder Council was a noble gesture, when Emperor Daeron II crafted it in the wake of his sire’s reign, to counter his father’s shameful legacy with an act of goodwill, or so it was said. To represent the desires of the innumerable factions intent on having their interests furthered. Fairness in matters of governance, it was argued. Still, at the end of every session, it was ultimately up to the emperor to decide. For now, at least.

In truth, many scholars knew it not to be a sign of goodwill, but a sacrifice. The first whispers of the cracks in House Targaryen’s armour. The creation of the Elder Council was a means to ensure the continuity of House Targaryen as the imperial family. Discord ran high in the ranks of the high nobility and powerful burghers. Bit by bit, they were starting to bear their teeth at the imperial family, biting off more and more flesh of the dragon.

The Dance of the Dragons had been one milestone that signalled the decline of their undisputed authority, the extinction of dragons another, and the legacy of the Unworthy an even bigger one. The exploits of her late grandfather, the Mad Emperor, was just another knot in the rope around their necks. On and on they hung; one, two, three, a multitude of nooses wrapped tightly around the throats of every member of the imperial family. The question was, what would be the final straw that would kick away their standing block?

“Your Highnesses, it must be a special occasion for the two fairest daughters in the Empire to attend the assembly of the Elder Council.” Petyr Baelish regaled them, a stack of papers clutched in his hand. Rhaenys found his smarmy smile too distasteful to gaze upon, but Dany did not. She was not appalled by unsmiling eyes and sickly sweet courtesies, and acknowledged him with a nod.

“Not at all, we’re as much present at the Elder Council sessions as my beloved brother. Politicking is nothing new to us. Lord Baelish. To find _you_ here is rather queer, however. I never thought an entertainer had any business with the Elder Council. They’re entertained enough as it is.” Dany quipped, still simpering.

Baelish did not falter, the edges of his mouthy smile still insufferably lengthy and pronounced. Petyr Baelish had acquired an armour against condescension, Rhaenys noted; his persistence to please so he could rub elbows with people of higher standing made him a very stubborn fly. He refused to be swatted away.

Baelish’s hand went inside his robes, and flicked before their eyes a letter. “On behalf of the Sealord, Ferrego Antaryon, I’ve come here to deliver some documents; affairs that the emperor needs to approve.”

“Lord Nyessos is more than equipped for such trivial matters. Why not give them to him? My brother can’t be bothered by such matters of low import.” Dany raised a questioning eyebrow.

“I’m afraid, he should, my princess.” Baelish showed the blue wax seal, the symbol of a ship drifting on a gulf stamped upon it, “A seal such as this may only be opened by the hands of His Magnificence.”

Indeed, that was true. A blue seal indicated matters of great import, which begged the question…

“And you have the trust of the Sealord to deliver such an important document, Lord Baelish?” Rhaenys could not help but let out the question accusingly, finally acknowledging his presence. Dany was of a similar mind, thoughtfully looking up and down the length of Petyr Baelish.

He smiled again, oily and sleek as a worm, as usual. “My, I do whatever my betters ask of me to do. The Sealord deigned to have me bring this to the emperor’s attention, and so, I did only as I was bid. With the utmost deference, of course.”

The doors opened, and the herald stepped out.

“Most esteemed guests! The Elder Council will now receive you all! Please, make your way towards the audience tribune!”

Petyr Baelish smiled one last time in parting before the swathes of his garb flapped dramatically as he strutted off, leaving a strong waft of Braavosi fragrance in his wake. It smelled of flowers and mint. Alongside a strong scent of deception.

“Filthy fork-tongued eel that he is…” Rhaenys snarled and Dany tittered delightfully beside her at the insult, greatly humoured it seemed.

“Dear Rhae, I know Petyr Baelish can be…slimy, but I honestly never understood this blazing hatred you have for the poor man.”

“Hatred? No, he’s unworthy of my hatred. Hate would indicate that I feel something for that lowly creature. It’s pure and unadulterated disgust I have towards the upstart merchant cretin that thinks he can strut around the place like he is our equal. I tell you, nothing that wormy man says ever sounded like a word of truth. I don’t trust him. And what I don’t trust, I want removed from my sight.”

“Do you trust Varys then? He puts that lanky entertainer to shame when it comes to subterfuge.”

“Do you?”

Dany shrugged her pretty shoulders. “Fair point. Varys is a puzzle even my brother has trouble solving. I have my reservations about Varys.”

“And so do I, but Father trusts him, to an extent. Even if he hasn’t fully solved the enigma that is the Spider, surely a part of that man’s grand scheme is clear to my father? Why would he keep him around otherwise?”

Their discussion went on a bit like that, arguing genially about who the greatest smooth tongue in the Empire was. Baelish came on top of the others after a much heated debate, with Varys, and Aegon placed second and third respectively. Though, a smooth tongue was not necessarily a compliment.

The crowd around them thinned, meandering through the hall to find themselves a favourable place upon the tribune. Rhaenys clutched gently on her aunt’s arm, and the two entered as well, yet again sopped in the whispers and murmurs of the attendees. They walked ahead, politely smiling sometimes in greeting to sate the eager faces of their courtiers, who all wished to break a word with one of the emperor’s darlings. Soon, a metal fence greeted them, two Blackguards opening the gate so Daenerys and Rhaenys could enter promptly and take a place upon their chairs. The little section secluded from the other areas provided for the most excellent view across the grand hall of the Elder Council Chamber. One had to only lean in a bit to listen leisurely at the talk of the Empire.

The gilded throne on the dais was vacant still. The doors behind the emperor’s seat also remained sealed. Father was yet to make an entrance. The other nine chairs were already occupied by the finest dressed officials in the Empire. The dignity of Councillor stood almost on par with that of the Lord Hand to the Emperor. It came with a hefty price to sit that chair, and only a scant few had such an obscene amount of gold to afford bribing their way through the elections.

Rhaenys allowed her eyes to hawk across the chambers, taking in all the faces currently present. She spotted Baelish in the left section, deep in discussion with another dignitary. The Spider, Varys, was also dangling from his web, those little eyes of his falling down upon the members of the Elder Council, observing them all like prey. His friend, a man of equal size with a beard forked like two carrots sticking out, whispered in his ear. It was the current Magister of Pentos, Illyrio Mopatis.

And so on and on, all of them hunched over, schemed and colluded with one another. A taste most foul crept along the slope of her tongue at this apocryphal orchestra of secrets and gossip. Rhaenys reckoned this was what it all was about after all; the exchange of duplicitous whispers and grasping plots between intrigants.

Rhaenys sharpened her ears, silencing the dismissive tales around her so she could hone her thoughts and listen to the Councillors debating.

“We must not consider war! The Dothraki have always lusted for gold as much as they have lusted for blood, let us quench their desire with the only other thing they love!”

“Cowardice blinds you, Volantenese suckling! No amount of tribute will appease them, the Ghiscari made sure of that! Nor should we consider it! War is the only thing they truly know! We should strike them down with a mighty axe!”

“You dare, filthy warmonger!? Are you so prepared to throw away lives!? To bring the scourge of war to our doorsteps, again!?”

“Better a warmonger than a craven! Do we so easily cower and allow our enemies to threaten us!? Nay! The Empire will not stand for it!”

Rhaenys felt her eyebrows raise of their own volition. The discussions seemed to have grown heated. This upcoming rise of the Ghiscari alongside the horselords had most of the imperial officials tangled in a panicked mess and had rattled more than a few cages; reaching for each other’s throats, in this case, showed how organized the highest institution in the Empire was about the whole ordeal.

Daenerys prodded her in the rib and gestured with her dainty finger subtly towards the far right, at the curve of the table. “Look, Aegon is seated at the high table. Isn’t that an occurrence once in a red moon.”

Rhaenys narrowed her eyes, and indeed, spotted her bright brother disinterestedly sitting upon a chair, his fist supporting his chin as his other hand toyed with a gold coin, flipping it repeatedly. “By R’hllor, I’ve been pulling at his ears for weeks to be present at a council meeting.” She snorted, pleased. “It seems he heard my prayers, bless the Lord of Light. Only a divine intervention could’ve moved him from his vices.”

“From his vices, mayhaps, but what truly moved him to come down and deign the Elder Council with his presence, I wonder?” Dany chewed on her lip, pondering.

Rhaenys smiled, leaning in more and resting her arms upon the stone surface of the parapet. “Let us see, beloved Dany.”

The doors opened with a groan behind the golden throne and silence fell upon all that were present, crowning itself as lord over the hall. Father marched into the chambers with stern authority. He was regal, powerful and grand in his gait, every inch of his existence an emperor, a true visage that could inspire legions to draw their swords in his name.

Father’s mere presence commanded the silence of all the attendees, shrills and whispers ceasing in favour of hearing the emperor’s footsteps resonate with each step he took. In sharp contrast, at his side canted Lord Nyessos Vhassar lamely, the old coot that he was. Not even the support of a cane helped the old man move about properly; Rhaenys was sure even Uncle Aemon had more mastery over his stiffened limbs than the Lord Hand, and Uncle Aemon regularly complained about his gouty feet.

Lord Nyessos’ handkerchief was ever faithfully tucked into his breast pocket, never far from his hand whenever one of his coughing fits grated through his throat. One of these days, he would be resting upon a burning pyre and be sent off to R’hllor’s court for judgment. He was near at death’s doors according to the eyes of all around them, but it seemed he refused to knock, the stubborn man he was.

Father sat his throne and gazed down upon the Elder Council regally, his Lord Hand not too far from his left, soaking in the silence. At last, the Speaker gesticulated to the Elder Council and spoke with a boisterous voice. “By the emperor’s will, the third session this annum of the Elder Council has opened. Bring forward the subject at hand!”

Before anyone else could move, the man sitting directly opposite of her father, who advocated against war, came to his feet. “Honoured Emperor Rhaegar, with your permission, allow me to speak of the issue at hand.”

A nod was all Father gave. “The floor is yours, Magister Harlos. Proceed with your stance duly.” A nod was all he needed to give, but decorum dictated Father to at least respond with proper respect. Such was his munificence. Father granted even the lowest of servants his benevolence, but strangely enough, that generosity did not include his own flesh and blood. Rhaenys was only mildly bitter about that.

His teal hair rippled with the deferent bow he returned, and the Councillor trudged up towards the rostrum so he could address Father, the Elder Council, and the audience.

“Your Magnificence, esteemed fellow Councillors, and honoured guests of today’s session! Heed my words, and listen closely, for they are a premonition of what is to come! The Holy Valyrian Empire stands on the brink of conflict with our most troublesome neighbours in the east, the descendants of the Ghiscari!”

Murmurs were circulating around as the words sank in, some sounding horrified, others not so much, but Rhaenys was convinced this particular whisper was already spoken in the ears of many in attendance. The theatrical deception of it all made Rhaenys scoff. Watching this particular mummery was never her favourite moment of the assembly.

“As is known, Grisnahr zo Ghizhaq, King of New Ghis and claimant to the lineage of Grazdan the Great, has subjugated the Three Daughters of Slaver’s Bay, and has now crowned himself lord and master of all the lands of the Ghiscari! But his ambition has not halted there! This fell advocate of conflict and war has married his unscrupulous daughter to the vilest beast of them all, the lover of pillaging and raping, Khal Drogo! With this unholy union, King Grisnahr’s might now counts forty thousand riders, alongside an army of over seventy thousand soldiers!”

A couple of gasps here, and some, ostensibly, panicked whispers there. Who knew which of them were of genuine surprise. There was no telling. There never was. In this court, mummery and politicking were twins suckling at the teats of deception. Rhaenys rolled her eyes at the drama of it all. Could he just get on with it?

“Do not go into that field of battle thoughtlessly! It has been twenty years since the Empire suffered one of its greatest wounds in history! Yes, it survived! Yes, the Empire lived through it! By the firm and careful hand of our illustrious emperor, New Valyria lives yet! For that, Emperor Rhaegar’s place in R’hllor’s eternal realm is guaranteed!”

Father was unmoved by the praises of this man, but neither the Council nor the audience felt the same. They clapped hard, probably hard enough for the entire capital to hear it, towards Father, whose regal shell was not cracked even slightly with appreciation. Ever the poised sovereign.

The applause settled down as Harlos called for attention. “Let us end this conflict before it is born! Through diplomacy and negotiations, we can further keep peace and prosperity! To close ourselves from the desolation and scourge of war! None should be subjugated to such horrors and see people brought in harm’s way! I ask of the Elder Council, and those honouring us with their presence, not to opt for war! It will bring us nothing but destruction and desolation! For the sake of our peaceful and prosperous society, for our empire!”

And the applause returned, twofold in power this time, people coming to their feet showering the young magister with the sound of clapping. He seemed to revel in the applause, broadly beaming at any who caught his eyes, extending a hand to greet the praise with humility.

“How hilariously outdated…” Dany commented wryly above the ruckus.

“His idealism?” Rhaenys chuckled.

“Very much so. What a silly speech this” Dany scoffed in thinly veiled contempt. “paragon of virtue gave us, full of bathos and buoyancy. And the people are endorsing it? For the sake of our peaceful and prosperous society? We are the descendants of Old Valyria; fire and blood paved our way to supremacy, not tending to sheep and farmlands. Valyrians do not bear their throats and appease the enemy at the barest sign of threat.” To see one of her rare moments of contempt made Rhaenys chuckle.

“Belligerent much, aren’t we?” Rhaenys teased, and Dany raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“Desire for war has no part in this, dear Rhae. I don’t promote conflict per se, but let’s not fool ourselves here, this man sees the world through a much too pretty looking glass. Doesn’t he know the history of the Valyrians? Our history? Treating with the Dothraki is throwing food to a dead man; a wasted effort.”

“It’s never a bad thing to prevent conflicts through dialogue and negotiation.”

“In most circumstances, I’d agree, but the Dothraki are made of different stuff. Their lifestyle, their whole world revolves around violence and taking what they can. It’s either hunt or be hunted with these people. I’ve read all the tomes about them, and took a keen interest in visiting some of them in captivity, to see for myself what kind of creatures they truly are. Nothing short of beasts, I concluded. Their history, their barbaric culture, the primitive religion they follow. Civilization hasn’t touched these horselords for a reason; it’s because they don’t want to understand a different life than the one that mandates them to take another’s. It’s ingrained in them, this urge to do violence. Born savages, they are. People the world would be well rid of. Which is exactly what Jon did for five long years. And the people of Ghis? Once, the harpies were unchallenged and mighty, but that all changed with the arrival of the Freehold. They suffered their greatest humiliation at our hands. If not their smallfolk, the nobility of this arising Ghiscari nation surely remember the days of yore. Or are reminded of it.”

“So what you’re saying is that…”

“…it’s not only a battle for land, or pride, or wealth, or other mundane things. It’s for survival. The east has grown afraid. Afraid of a repeat. Frightened by the prospect of the dragon finishing what it started. It began with Viserys I, and it continued with Daeron I. But in recent years, we suffered internal conflict after internal conflict, and the east grew mellow, thinking us to have watered down and settled. And then, Jon came with his campaign against the horselords, a devastating offensive that reminded them of the past. The Dothraki are eager to avenge their brothers Jon defeated, but in hindsight, it actually goes far deeper than that.”

“Fear…” Rhaenys frowned.

Dany nodded. “If I had to make a guess, probably that.”

The noise of clapping petered out, and to both of their surprise, another man stood up and called for the attention of the chamber. His hair caught the light of the chandeliers hanging about, a white streak of pale-blond, like white gold. Aside from Father, there was only one other man blessed with moonlight in his hair.

And that was Aegon.

The chamber went disquiet; chatter was picking up in volume, startled to see the crown prince rising from his seat. Even Father straightened in his throne at the sight of his son coming to the rostrum and calling for order.

“Father, with your leave, may I present the opinion of the esteemed Councillor of Tyrosh, Lord Freeholder Sallyrio Sanar? I’ve been asked, in his stead, to advocate for his position.”

Father nodded. “The floor is yours, Prince Aegon.”

Daenerys shuffled closer to the balustrade. “What is he doing?”

From the balcony, Rhaenys frowned with worry and unease. “At this point, your guess is as good as mine, Dany.”

Aegon gave a nod and a winning smile back to Father. His indigo eyes drank in the faces of all present as his bright locks scintillated in the light, pristine and shining like polished silver. Aegon’s smile widened when his regard landed on Rhaenys and Daenerys and shared a little wink before he allowed his voice to flush over the Elder Council.

“Citizens of New Valyria, illustrious guests and honoured father, the most esteemed representative of Volantis speaks of peace and caution, of talk and diplomacy. May he receive Baelor’s blessing, for I cannot help but commend him…”

Aegon’s voice was made of silk itself; resonating and calming, but powerful, just like Father’s. Problems with gaining attention, Aegon never had. He spoke, and the world hung on every word. He was a born speaker.

The crowd clapped hard and loud for Aegon, just as they did for Magister Harlos, who returned the approval of the assembly with another humbled smile and a wave.

Again, silence fell upon them all, and Aegon pressed on. “I commend him, this man, this good man…for the fact that he is so naively optimistic.”

Rhaenys felt herself flush cold; what was Aegon thinking!? Insulting a Councillor!?

Magister Harlos grew red from embarrassment and the Elder Council Chamber had never been so noiseless as now. Rhaenys dared a glance to her father, but he was unreadable; his face was carved from stone, or ice, or mayhaps even obsidian, she could not decide.

Aegon was not finished, and continued theatrically. “For thousands of years, the Dothraki have known nothing else but blood and gold, the very meaning of land pirates, taking what is theirs and leaving behind nary a thing but broken lives. We are to treat with these people? With these murderous savages? To endeavour the road of diplomacy with them…? I’ll sing you a different song.”

Aegon left the rostrum and paced around, coming to stand before their emperor father. “Your Imperial Grace…” Aegon’s eyes darkened, foreboding and hard as Valyrian steel, the winning smile on his lips no longer there.. “…we are beyond diplomacy with these people. With the Dothraki and the Ghiscari. They are beyond the ways of talk and negotiations. Why? Because the very essence of that diplomacy will mean the end of my brother, Jon Targaryen.”

The Elder Council erupted in agitated murmurs. The audience congregated like frenzied vultures over a carcass, and Father narrowed his eyes. The air was thick with suspense, thick enough for a blade to cut through.

“What does he mean by that? Jon’s end? Rhaenys, what is Aegon saying?” Daenerys urged, rubbing Rhaenys’ arm to garner her attention.

Rhaenys could not do anything else but shake her head. “I know not, sweet aunt, but by the looks of it, Egg does. Let’s hear him out.”

“Fifteen thousand Dothraki riders were brought to heel by my dear brother, Prince Jon. Fifteen thousand men who all swore themselves to Khal Drogo’s honour, now scattered in the wind by the accomplishments of one man. Do you think the horselords will not have want for Jon’s blood? For retribution? Only a fool would think elsewise! And let us not forget the grievances our ancestors have caused the people of Ghis! For certain, a deep vengeance courses through them, which they wish to see satisfied! More than that, it is not only revenge that drives them! It is fear! Fear for what we might repeat!”

Magister Harlos rose from his seat, recovered from his embarrassment earlier, looking ready to match Aegon’s argument word for word. “The sins of a father are not a son’s! We cannot be blamed for what was done thousands of years ago! It’s dishonourable to think so!”

“Dishonourable? The only sin that is being committed here is the allowance of our adversary’s existence! We should give them the iron gauntlet! If we want peace, we should prepare for war!” A different voice boomed, loud and deep as the crackling of a thunderbolt; he was a huge, bronze-skinned man, his posture domineering over most of the people with ease, a bushy beard covering up almost his entire face. He wore a long robe of a ruddy colour, as crinkled as the wrinkles across his entire hairy face. He raised his greataxe above his head as he spoke.

A Norvoshi Bearded Priest, Rhaenys noted it by the small scar shaped like an axe on his cheek, sitting on one of the most powerful devices in the Empire. What made the people of Norvos elect a warmongering zealot to represent their city as Elder Councillor, Rhaenys did not know. Another quaint trait of queer people, she decided.

“Spoken with truth, Councillor Tregor Brenerion. Honour and pride may have inspired this alliance to raise their arms at last, but that very inspiration inside their hearts was a flame hundreds of years in the making! A seed nurtured by dread. _We_ should cave in to their threat, and opt for negotiations? It’s us they fear, not the other way around! Should we choose diplomacy, they’ll demand my brother’s head on a spike, if only to quell their fear! No, the Empire will not have that! I will not have that! There is only one choice here! War! So what say you, Father? Will you have peace…or war?”

The eyes of all present were now aimed at Father.

He betrayed nary a thing; his thoughts, his opinion, his decision were all unclear, up for guessing. Such was his posture. Father’s decorum was made of Valyrian steel, and nothing that escaped its marches. In contrast to the members of the Elder Council, who all began to murmur and gesture fervently amongst one another, Father remained perched upon his grand seat, not a single muscle twitching.

Until Emperor Rhaegar rose from his throne.

When the emperor stood, the people ceased with their incessant muttering.

The Elder Council Chamber grew soundless, not a soul who breathed in this pressured atmosphere which had grown as heavy as boulders.

All waited for the emperor to ordain his decision.

And he gave it.

His next words felt like the herald of a storm.

“We will have war.”

* * *

 

 

 **WINTERFELL**  

 **EDDARD I**  

 

The snow beneath his boots crunched like dry bones as Eddard entered into the arms of the godswood. The cold of the snow-layered earth seeped through the soles of his boots, the feeling pleasant to his feet. It kept him awake and aware in the unforgivingly cold weather of the North. The chill up the Neck left the senses sharp and true, Eddard thought; nary a Northman he knew once complained how freezing the winds were, nor how they cut through the skin like white blades. For all of them, the cold was a reminder that as days went by, harsher and harsher the North turned. Winter was coming, they would all chortle over horns of mead.

High above, Eddard found the sky painted in a roan colour; streaks of white and grey and something a shade darker intermittently exchanged hands here and there, a sombre and solemn picture, much like the seat of the North, much like himself.

The weirwood trees around him moaned, their branches festooned with leaves ruddy as blood. In their peace, they gently swayed like waving hands as a soft northern zephyr carrying the smell of sowed manure rustled through them. The gales glided across the vast expanse of his ancestral lands all the way to the south, towards the Riverlands and the Vale. Faintly, the leaves chimed, like little bells of children’s laughter, and Ned sat at his usual place beneath the heart tree, taking it all in, the lack of sound around him a comfort to his troubled soul, a balm to his bemused mind.

His hand clutched a whetstone, and an oilcloth was tucked somewhere in his fur mantle, which he brought out and unwrapped. Ice rested against his knee when he took his seat, the cold of its steel pressing firmly against his thigh, feeling it even through the layers of his woollen trousers and leather breeches. It really did its name justice, for it felt as cold as the nights of midwinter.

Eddard’s hand set to work and ground the whetstone over the cold steel of his ancestral blade, building a pattern and settling in a languid pace. Eddard did not need to exert himself in this. Too much effort was wasted anyway; the whetstone was not there to sharpen Ice, only to grind off hardened dust, and for the finer parts to be wiped off by the cloth. In all its days of existence, its edge remained true and sharp still.

The same could not be said about the King in the North, however.

As he looked up from his perch to find some relief, Eddard’s eyes crossed those of the old gods’, thick red tree sap bleeding out of the carvings that served as their eyes and mouth. The weirwood tree looked as grim as ever, and Eddard reckoned his expression right now might rival those of the old gods, who had watched the yore Kings of Winter come and go with their lurid frowns.

Yet, aside from that, there was something else, something unnerving Eddard found, in their penetrative gazes too. Something he never took note of during his boyhood, but with each year that passed, he found more and more outstanding.

Judgment.

The burden of sleepless nights were a constant weight on Eddard’s mind these days. Whispers would bounce off the walls of his bedchambers, come to him softly in the dead of night and tell of little whimpers and heartbroken pleas. Whimpers sounding so eerily familiar. A young girl, her fiery hair plaited prettily like a crown and crystal clear water encapsulated in her eyes, would huddle in a corner as the water trickled down her cheeks. Her face, looking soft as a leaf, had finely cut forms and striking features so familiar, it felt like he was remembering a fond memory; the lines of her high cheekbones, the tint of her eyes vivid.

She looked so much like sweet Cat.

Sometimes this phantom, clad in a dress the colour of eggshell blue, would glide from hall to hall, the ends of her skirt swaying like the waves of the Sunset Sea. Each time she would turn a corner, this beautiful blue and red ghost would laugh melodiously, mournfully, sorrowfully.

Eddard knew that girl.

She was the cause of his sleepless nights after all.

Not even the arms of his wife held at bay these troubled thoughts. Few things caused Eddard unease, but for this ache, he had ample reason to feel harboured in some desolated place, cold and guilty.

Sansa was missing.

His lovely daughter, his sweet and tender-hearted Sansa was nowhere to be found in the Seven Kingdoms.

By the gods, he was such a fool not to have seen the signs sooner.

Sansa was an honest child; she would beam when chicks came nipping the seeds out of her hand, shed thick little droplets of tears while cradling a little bird with broken wings and smile so endearingly haughty at any lordling trying their hand in wooing her, the tint of pink on her cheeks betraying her delight. There was no bone in her body that could tell a lie or hold any malice. Yes, she was wilful perhaps, but also a sweet creature that still knitted together the tears in Robb’s or Arya’s tunics, cared for her littlest brother Rickon when he scraped his knee and read to Bran words he found too tongue-tying for his age.

For a handful of moon turns, ravens from the south came bearing the missives of the double sigils of Houses Stark and Durrandon, something Sansa personally took upon herself to use as her crest in honour of her husband.

The first missive Eddard received contained her absolute elation, as he had expected. That time, Eddard had no difficulties imagining his lovely daughter swooning over every rune she penned; Sansa shared in her letters about how very handsome Prince Joffrey was, how eager and impatient she was to be wed, and how very happy she was to be at Storm’s End around young maiden-ladies of similar feather, living her dream come true, or so she had said.

The day Sansa’s second missive came, a moon’s turn later, the content could not have been more different than the previous one. No more were they written with impeccable care. Some words here and there looked more scribbled hastily than carefully thought through.

Her letters spoke of little things, trivial things, subjects he would not expect to read from Sansa, like how the mottled curtain walls of Storm’s End seemed tormented by weed, or how the heavy rain around the Stormlands wailed pervasively, strong enough to flush away plots of farmland. What Eddard found most disconcerting was how his daughter wrote about the chilling winds coming from the Narrow Sea and how prickly they felt to her skin.

Starks were not discomforted by the cold.

It was puzzling for Eddard, to read the rather plain, dare he say dismal, letters of his daughter who was so enamoured and in love since the time she caught word of her future marriage to Joffrey Durrandon, that her eyes twinkled like the stars, their gleam bright enough for Eddard to spare himself the nuisance of ordering candles and lanterns to be hung across Winterfell for the night.

And then the realization struck him bluntly, as fierce as Robert’s spiked warhammer, caving in his chest and leaving him stumbling as it all fell in place.

His sweet daughter was being mistreated.

Mistreated and alone in foreign lands.

For the first time in his life, Eddard Stark felt a cold inside his ribcage no hearth in the world could help do away. For the first time, Eddard understood how a Stark knew what it meant to feel the cold. Cold fingers squeezed his heart so painfully, he felt as though death’s herald itself had taken a hold of him.

It all traced back to that fateful day, when promises were made, and when promises started to muddle and even dissipate in worth. Promises which House Stark was bound by honour to fulfil and which his siblings had spat in the face of, not once, but twice. Promises which he felt obligated to do right by after all they went through. Promises with good intentions, but carried out with very little prudence.

One, Eddard found himself unable to find bitterness in for much longer, for it placed in his arms a dutiful wife not meant for him, yet who came to love him fiercely anyhow; a woman who had become so fundamentally important to his life, a day spent without her was a day squandered.

The other, he was not sure.

That one brought nothing but confusion and heartache.

Lyanna had always been a girl led by a fiery passion, and that dangerous fire was only stoked when the dragon prince came to court.

Rhaegar Targaryen, as those dragonlords were wont to do in their stories, came with wings of fire.

In his flight, he left them all scorched and burned.

Looking back to it, mayhaps Eddard should have said or done something rather than playing the silently pondering friend and brother he usually tended to be. Eddard knew of what kind of steel Robert was forged. Everybody knew, by the gods, even the ewes and the sows knew. All of them knew as well what kind of blood coursed through Lyanna’s and Brandon’s veins. And yet, Eddard breathed naught about it.

He allowed for it all to play out, like a mummer’s farce straight out of a Braavosi playbook. And what a play they all performed. Brandon died at the banks of the Trident. Robert and he grew estranged. Benjen took the black out of shame. He was named King in the North, and Lyanna absconded to the east. It turned into an utter disaster. A disaster which he felt could only be mended by another promise, to once and for all wash away the bad blood that had inadvertently been spilled between two houses which were once such good friends.

Another promise with good intention, another promise with poor forethought.

This was on Eddard’s shoulders. His and his damnable devotion to honour. In order to right what was wronged, Eddard betrothed his fair Sansa to Robert’s eldest son, to finally realize his dearest friend’s wish of uniting House Stark and House Durrandon in blood. If only he knew what would come to pass. If only he knew.

So lost in his own thoughts, Eddard failed to notice the obtrusive sound of snow being crunched again, and only when a delicately soft hand landed on top of his thigh did he look up in slight surprise, meeting the twin set of river blues of his wife Catelyn.

“Twice, I’ve called out your name, Ned, and twice it seems my words have fallen on deaf ears.” She frowned, concern plainly written over her fine features, the crow’s feet at the sides of her eyes a little bit more pronounced with her eyebrows knitted together.

Eddard allowed a smile to unfurl over his lips. Catelyn still invoked inside him a deeply rooted passion, even after twenty years of marriage, and five children. The years had been kind to Catelyn, despite what she sometimes said about the crow’s feet around her eyes or her joints aching from too much strain. Eddard found them endearing. Everything about her Eddard found endearing still. And yet, looking at his wife caused him a sharp grief as well, twisting like a dagger in his gut, a painful reminder of something else. Here stood the woman which Sansa took so much after. Not only had sweet Sansa inherited Catelyn’s thick Tully bronze mane and soulful blue eyes, but also Cat’s tender soul and kind heart.

“What troubles you, my love?” She asked with a hand pressed against his cheek, her fingers scratching the shadow which Eddard allowed to grow across his face. She could read him so well; a mere glance into his eyes, and she would express concern in finding him so morose.

A breath shuddered through his nostrils, one laced with much meaning and heavy with burden. “The same subject that has kept me awake during most nights these past moon turns.”

Cat’s hand slid off his cheek and come to rest upon his own hand, intertwining their fingers. The blues of her eyes, so crystal clear and soulful, looked glassy. Her thoughts seemed to be somewhere else, somewhere far. “We both are victims to our inability to find peace inside our mind, it seems.”

Eddard brushed his thumb across the wrinkled expanse of Cat’s hand. “Aye, that we are.”

The slope of her back straightened, and Cat brought back her watery eyes to gaze into his own grey ones again. “For many moons, I’ve been haunted by my own conscience. On my behest, we wedded our daughter to a foreigner, away from our grasp and eyes, so I thought she could blossom in the south. And now, we have no knowledge of her health, her safety, her life. It tears me apart, this uncertainty.”

Eddard shook his head. “The fault lies not with you, my love. I should have known better. Of all people, _I_ should have known better.” He tried to stymie her guilt, but Catelyn seemed too rooted in that field and pursed her lips into a grim line, eyebrows furrowed in clear sorrow.

“It were my words that filled Sansa’s head with dreams of songs and gallantry. My lips moved and spoke about the knights, the lords and the princes of the south. About the children’s tales that held our daughter in a bubble. You need not care for my feelings, Ned; as much as you place the blame on your shoulders, so must I.”

Eddard’s lips parted, but no words came out, for his mind was void. Eddard sought out words that could help ameliorate the conflict inside his warring heart, inside their warring hearts, yet all of them looked to be entrapped behind walls and towers he found insurmountable.

Catelyn, sensing his crestfallen mind, softly grasped her husband’s hand tighter, her fingers melding so seamlessly with his. “Faith has always kept me strong, Ned; seven times a day I’ve knelt before the Seven inside the sept. It’s how I was raised by my mother. My lord father spoke oft how powerful faith is, more so in times of despair, and that one cannot allow himself to abandon it.”

Eddard nodded at her side, agreeing with Cat and finding strength in her words. She may follow those southron gods, with their walled septs, incense and their opulent insistence on ceremony, but no falsity could be found in Cat’s words.

His wife came to rise and Eddard followed, both still in each other’s arms. “Sansa’s whereabouts are in the wind.” She said softly, stricken by grief. “None that know where our dear girl is, and not a day goes by that it chips a part of my heart away. Sometimes, I wish to lock myself up in my chambers and lament, curse and cry, but what good would that do?” Catelyn’s eyes searched Eddard’s and he met them encouragingly, those Tully eyes turning steadfast and resolved. “I’m not only a mere mother; I’m the wife of Eddard Stark, the Queen to the King in the North. Our people has need of me. They cannot think that I've lost my faith, lost my hope. I cannot allow dark winds to blow forth my sails, nor can I allow dark words to dictate my thoughts. As long as there is faith inside my heart, as long as there is hope, if only a sliver of it, I must firmly believe that our beloved daughter is somewhere out there, alive. Fighting, surviving, enduring. She is a Stark, and the Starks endure. We must believe that.”

Eddard allowed a rueful smile to play on his lips, despite himself. For the first time in moons, a queer sense had latched on to him, a feeling Eddard found he had been seeking for a while now.

Hope.

“Aye, my love, we Starks endure. Sansa is every bit your daughter, and your strength is made of nothing else but spell-forged steel. One of these days, gods willing, we shall have our daughter yet again in our arms.”

“Gods willing, it shall be so.” Catelyn agreed as her lips tugged into a reluctant smile, inching closer and burying her face against his shoulder as king and queen, man and wife, embraced each other tightly, willing the other to find hope.

They remained like that for a moment longer, and Eddard liked to think that Cat was unwilling to part yet from this just as much as he was. It had been such a long while since he and Cat had shared an affectionate moment.

Sansa’s disappearance had caused a rift to grow between the king and queen, born from lamentation and self-loathing. His wife was quicker than he to pick up on their daughter’s unhappiness, for Sansa was her mother’s living shadow the very moment his daughter’s legs allowed for such a great responsibility. She knew Sansa like she knew herself, from the inside and out.

It was therefore why Catelyn took the news of her disappearance far more painfully than he did, and so too why she accused herself far more bitterly for her daughter’s sorrows.

Eddard made no mistake in presuming; he knew his love for Sansa was not supine, but his affections most assuredly paled in comparison to what Cat felt for their eldest daughter.

The girl was her mother made young again, and there were none who contested that.

Robb, Bran, Arya, Rickon, those four could try as they might, but Sansa would still be placed in her mother’s heart first. Was it wrong for a mother to favour one over the others? Perhaps it was, Eddard reckoned, yet Cat’s devotion to Sansa bore fruit. They had raised a daughter most men and women wept tears of joy for.

Sansa was always reminded of family, of duty, of honour by Catelyn, the three virtues that made an excellent mother, wife and queen, and Sansa lived by those words religiously.

And aside from that, the boys had no special tendency to cling to their mother’s skirt for so long. Boys were boys, soon outgrown of their mother and instead seeking a different kind of attention from women. Robb already trifled a bit too many times with the scullery maids and other maidens that caught his eye. Bran had found kindred souls in Howland’s children Meera and Jojen, and Rickon, though still a babe in Eddard’s eyes, loved frolicking with the children of Eddard’s most distant bannermen from Skagos and up north near the mountain clans. The Mormonts liked him, their wild prince they said, and Lord Jorah kept insisting on having Rickon ward at Bear Island.

And Arya? Well, as Sansa was Catelyn’s, Arya had been Eddard’s favourite, if he was allowed to confess. Probably because she reminded Eddard of another princess with her ‘I’ll dare anything’ smile.

“Your Graces? A word if I may?” A voice called out. Eddard released his wife from the confines of his arms and tore his eyes away from Catelyn to look at Jory Cassel.

The King in the North gesticulated for the captain of his household guard to step forward. “State your business, Jory.”

Rodrik’s nephew nodded curtly. “Maester Luwin has received a raven, from the Wulls. A rider from the north came to them not too long ago, my king, riding in black furs and leathers. A brother of the Night’s Watch, I reckon.”

Catelyn’s face grew thoughtful. “Have we not given the Lord Commander already fresh recruits some odd weeks prior?”

“Aye, my queen, we have, and plenty ones at that, but this rider has not come to demand bodies for Castle Black.”

It was Eddard’s turn to look prudent. “Then what has he come for all this way down to the clansmen?”

The King and Queen in the North strode along with Jory out of the godswood, right into the courtyard, where the loud noises of smallfolk going about their work rang throughout the castle. Squealing pigs were shepherded to the stalls by children wielding branches while the ostlers were busy grooming the horses for the hunt organized for some days later. Woodcutters carried piles of lumber towards the stores of the Winter Town, one of them bartering with a farmer to lend his cart in order to carry the larger timber and a butcher was roaring after a boy who had managed to steal a hare.

Winterfell was full of hustle and bustle.

Some of the lowborn dipped their heads and pleasantly greeted the Lord and Lady of Winterfell, to which Eddard and Catelyn smiled back in answer or gave candid greetings of their own.

“From what Maester Luwin gathered from this letter, a black brother has abandoned his vows and fled the lands of the Night’s Watch without leave.” Jory explained as they crossed the courtyard, Ser Rodrik greeting them with a formal nod before resuming his watch over the training yards. They were walking straight into the Great Keep, and Eddard even took a moment out of his time to order some men and help push a cart stuck in the mud, for which the farmer expressed his eternal gratitude.

Eddard pursed his lips, concerned by this piece of information. Not many were foolish enough to dare that folly. The last one who tried escaping the Watch ended up headless, courtesy of his father King Rickard. That man, rather, that boy, as he barely had any muscle and looked like he was just starting to grow a beard like himself, had pleaded mercy the entire way down the road before he was executed in the old way. Eddard still remembered his pleas.

As they entered the halls, Eddard came upon Robb, his eldest boy, soon no longer a boy, and saw how he was in deep discussion with Domeric Bolton, Roose’s lad and the heir to the Dreadfort. From what he heard from the distance, it was a discussion regarding the value of swords and daggers in battle.

“Daggers are for thieves and cravens, Dom. What good would a dirk be if your opponent brandishes a sword as long as your length? They’re only good for peeling the shells off turnips.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, my prince.” Domeric chuckled, sharpening his knife. “While on the open field, yes, a sword beats a dagger any moment of the day, blow for blow, not all fights are fought on lowlands. Take your surroundings, for example.” With the grace and speed of a falcon, the heir to the Dreadfort pressed his jagged knife to the pulse of Robb’s throat, who remained calm, yet swallowed thickly at the feeling of cold steel against his skin. Eddard could faintly hear a gasp from his side. “See, my prince? Even if you were to unsheathe your sword, the damn thing would only screech here and there against the wall, for there is no proper room to manoeuvre. A dagger, on the other hand–”

“Remove that blade from your prince right this instant, or your hand is forfeit!”

“Mother!” Robb exclaimed, and Domeric retracted his blade instantly from his prince’s throat. “we were just having a civilized discussion.”

“A civilized discussion, you say? What kind of civilized discussion requires live steel to be pressed against your throat?” Catelyn reproached, and Robb went silent after that. His wife then regarded the Bolton boy, and her fury increased. “And you, have you lost your wits? Baring a dagger against the heir to the North? I should have you sent back to your father for your insolence in tar and feathers!”

Domeric threw his eyes to the floor, contrite clear in his stance. “My deepest apologies, Your Grace. It shall not be repeated.”

“Indeed it shall not. Remove yourself from my sight, at once.”

As if scalded, the young Bolton lad dashed off after offering a curt nod to Robb, who looked thoroughly stricken by what just transpired.

Robb’s eyes, so much like his mother’s, glared at Catelyn, and Eddard could feel how his wife bristled at the petulance of their son. “Don’t you dare, Robb Stark. That Bolton boy should have known better than draw steel in the presence of his prince.”

“Mother! Domeric meant nothing by it! It was just a demonstration to make his point!”

“And he paid for making his point.” Eddard concluded gruffly, nipping this conflict in the bud. His wife looked ready to give Robb a dressing down he would never forget, but Eddard placed a hand on Cat’s shoulder, placating her with his eyes to remain calm, and the fire inside those outraged blue eyes simmered. With his wife calmed down, Eddard allowed himself to frown at his eldest son. “Your mother had every right to do what she did. Or have you forgotten?”

After Sansa’s disappearance, Catelyn had grown fiercely protective over her brood. She held no ill will towards the Bolton boy, yet the sight of a blade as sharp as that pressed against Robb’s skin had sent her reeling in anxiety, and she did not know what else to do but lash out the way she did. Most of all who suffered under their mother’s concern was Bran. The lad had been strictly forbidden to scale the walls of the castle. Eddard had not seen his second son smile for quite a while now after that.

Robb had the conscientiousness to look down. “I have not, Father. Sansa remains in my prayers every day still.”

That seemed to thaw the chilling air around them, and Catelyn made her way towards their son and enveloped him in a tight embrace. Robb’s arms remained rigid at his side, but after a few moments, they wrapped around Cat’s hesitantly.

Many a denizen of Winterfell were high strung these days, proven by how they carried themselves. It shimmered on the surface of their daily activities; walking a fine thread. How not? Eddard heard many a lord of the North voice their indignation about the circumstances around his daughter.

In the earlier days, Rickard Karstark and the Greatjon had expressed their desire to rally the North and march south for Sansa. Roose advised caution, though, the Leech Lord always prompted caution, in a bid to look a patient bannerman keen on providing his liege lord the safest advice. The Wulls and the Flints swayed from one side to the other, the Ryswells and Dustins leaned towards Roose, as they always did, and all the rest of his vassals expressed their loyalty to the king, choosing whichever direction Eddard deemed fit.

And then, Sansa vanished without a trace. With it, the voices of the Northern lords muted eerily, and many a frown replaced their thirst for battle. What meaning they held, Eddard knew not. Or perhaps he did. Mayhaps he did know the hidden message behind those eyes and found himself concerned at their meaning.

Eddard had refused them all Sansa’s hand only to give it some southron prince, he remembered some lord grumble. Of course his bannermen would hold him liable for denying them a royal bride, only for her to vanish.

A sigh wheezed through Eddard’s lips. Now was not the time to dwell on distracting matters. Displeased vassals were the least of his concerns right now.

“Find your brother, Robb, and tell Domeric to ready our horses.”

Robb regarded his father with puzzlement, disentangling himself from his mother. “The hunt is not in a few days, Father.”

“It’s not for the hunt; we have been told a brother of the Night’s Watch has forsaken his vows.”

* * *

The Crown of Winter lay heavy on Eddard’s brow as his head nodded with each trot his horse made. The sun was dipping, burning less bright than before as twilight started to creep up and settle into the darkening sky. Eddard raised his head and gazed at the glowing sky, burning with a purple sheen. His stormy eyes saw how the stars winked back at him, like bright little eyes of their own, a group of them huddled close together forming the Ice Dragon constellation. Mother used to tell stories about the Ice Dragon and Father spoke of how the Ice Dragon was the North in the sky; a hall carved from stars and housing all of their ancestors in its bones.

To Eddard, the Ice Dragon had stood witness to many of his most important moments. The birth of his children, his wedding to Cat, his coronation as King in the North, the victory at Riverrun. He was an old friend. An old, distant and silent friend.

What Eddard would give to have his old friend step down from the night’s sky, sit down next to him in the great hall of Winterfell and break stories of lighter gist.

The Ice Dragon’s blue eye pointed north towards the Wall, towards the lands beyond that frontier. How many lives it must have seen come and ago. How many kingdoms it had seen rise and fall.

There was a great wisdom held in that eye.

Eddard wished to know how to break it open and find the answers he had been searching for these past years.

With a sigh Eddard spurred his auburn mount further, tugging at the reins to avoid stepping into the treacherous pits scattered before them, cantering down the dirt road with an entourage of his guards at his back. The path ahead was dusty and unpaved, only a little trail of barren earth robbed of its vegetation, not appreciated by any horse rider worth his salt. He heard Robb grumble often of the poor conditions whenever he was to entreat with the lords around, and Eddard had to agree the inconvenience it all caused.

Bran was too enraptured by the scenery around him to complain much, pointing towards the west, at the peaks of the Northern mountains crowned with snow. His son gazed with childlike awe towards them.

“Look at the size of that mountain, Domeric!”

The Bolton boy chuckled. “Aye, it’s a large rock. Full of shiny metal and pretty gems. Do you know what the clansmen call that mountain, Bran?”

His second eldest son nodded enthusiastically. “Donnel named it the Giant’s Grotto, but that can’t be right. Giants haven’t been spotted since the end of the Age of Heroes. Lord Torghen claims to have slain one, but Donnel says there is no skull that backs up his father’s claim.”

“But there are still some giants walking about, Prince Bran.”

“Truly, Domeric?”

“Why, look no further than the Last Hearth. The blood of the First Men runs strong in them. The Greatjon, he stands as tall and big as any giant come alive.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you, Dom?” Robb smirked as he slowed his horse to come beside his friend. “Those Umber lasses are no tittering maidens, big and strong girls they are, but I guess not even Umber bravery makes them insusceptible to your fluent tongue. I’ve seen how Idera Umber looked at you during the harvest feast a fortnight ago.”

“Aye, she looked at him alright, like a bear looks upon a pond full of fish.” Jory jested, and the rest of Eddard’s retinue roared in laughter. A small smile played at Eddard’s lips as he listened to the good humour.

Domeric Bolton, stoic but amiable lad, was holding a contest with Bran to spot as many different birds as they could recognize after the merriment died down. Next to him were Jory and Alyn with a couple of household guards trailing behind them. Robb had come back to Eddard’s side, and asked him about the affairs around the Old Mint up near White Harbour and how that had been handled. Rickon remained at the castle; he was too young yet to witness the king’s justice.

Many of them were seasoned riders, and had no word to spare in complaint. Northern men by nature were a dour lot, but complaining was not appreciated much here. It was not like some grumbles and sniffs could sway the gods in forging paved roads for them.

Before Eddard’s coming of age, he heard his father, King Rickard III, oft discussing the expansion of the North’s roads, to help forge the North into a kingdom more worthy of trade. Aside from ironwood, hides and livestock, the North did not have much going on in terms of trade goods. That changed with the discovery of minerals in the Northern mountains.

One of Father’s biggest discoveries was the abundance of silver and copper up north where the mountain clans resided. At first, it seemed to be only a few solitary veins spread here and there, stumbled upon in a stroke of luck, but when Father ordered a proper prospecting of the Northern mountains, it was then how far House Stark realized the wealth stored in the North went.

After extensive appraisals, and some help from Braavosi coin masters, the conclusion was astounding; while it was not the Westerlands come again, the amount of minerals discovered would bring about a new age of prosperity for the North. Caverns full of silver, some gemstones like rubies and amethysts, copper, and some mines even contained gold. It was a discovery that prompted a great feast in Winterfell.

The Flints, Norreys and Wulls were aware of this already, much to Father’s chagrin, and when the three families were inquired why they never disclosed this rather paramount knowledge, the answer was quite humorous; they earnestly said they found no use in pretty gems and metals, and thus, held them in no particular value. They thought the same applied to the other lords. Livestock and furs held more use for them than frivolous metals. And they had the right to think so, for living in the mountains was a harsh life with only few ways known that made it barely.

To the east was Long Lake, a great assembly of water as cold as flowing ice; even during summer some parts of it remained frozen solid and some came to believe the lake to be enchanted, or cursed. Seventy odd years ago, the wildling king Raymun Redbeard was crushed by the combined efforts of King Willam Stark, his brother Prince Artos and Lord Harmond Umber. House Stark had to pay for the blunders of Sleepy Jack, whose forces had come too late to provide decisive aid in the battle. Prince Artos had thrown the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch into Long Lake in his wroth, cursing him for his ineptitude. The murder of the Lord Commander, incompetent as he was, by the hands of a Stark left a stain on the name of their house.

_Much like this deserter who has besmirched the Watch’s name with his abandonment._

The deserter was held at Highpoint, by Lord Ludd Whitehill. Eddard never much saw the Whitehills at feasts and melees. They were an odd bunch, those followers of the Andal Faith. The Manderlys had a godswood nearby New Castle in deference to their liege, but the Whitehills were staunch believers of the southron faith. Eddard once visited Highpoint back in prior days, and had not seen a heart tree with its blood-red leaves anywhere. It did not do much to endear them to the other lords, who regarded them as outcasts. Eddard himself did not hold them in contempt, but as a wise man once said, the lands around you provide for you. These were the lands of the old gods. The Seven had no sway here. And thus, so too did their blessings not come here.

“Your Grace!” Eddard heard the bark of an approaching rider, coinciding with their arrival at a crossroad. A wooden pole was lodged into the ground with signs nailed upon its length; west would lead towards the Wolfswood and Deepwood Motte, up north reclined Highpoint Keep on a beaten down hill and east would lead towards Long Lake.

Eddard raised his hand to stop his entourage. The errand rider, a young boy with a pox-scarred face and shaggy brown hair, dismounted his horse and took a knee. “Your Grace, Lord Ludd Whitehill wishes to inform you he is awaiting your arrival with the oathbreaker. My lord stands with his men further west, along the slope of the hill.”

Eddard nodded and thanked the young lad before he gave him his leave. He had sent a raven beforehand to inform the Lord of Highpoint to already make the necessary arrangements. In truth, the only few things the man needed to do was fetch an execution block and make sure the deserter did not escape. The weight of his ancestral sword Ice pressed against his back, reminding him of his father’s words.

_The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, my boy, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die._

They rode swiftly, with the hooves of their horses clattering heavily against the dirt. Moments later, and Eddard gazed up ahead, where four men, one clad in chains, stood waiting for them. They were surrounded by standing stones, a relic of ancient times.

The gods were watching them.

Eddard brought his destrier to a halt nearby the pond, stepping down and handing the reins to one of his men. Ludd Whitehall was the first to step forth and bend the knee, with two younger lads, his sons no doubt, following his example.

The Lord of Highpoint had greying hair, the better part of his head shaven clean save for the whiskers at the side. Most of the northern men had unfriendly faces beaten by the cold wind and tousled beards, but not Lord Whitehall. The furs and leathers he wore looked just as out of place as his cropped beard, which was neatly groomed and looked softer than Eddard’s hands. His sons looked no different, blessed with thick curls of sandy hair and eyes as brown as ironwood. The Whitehalls looked as southron as their faith.

“Your Grace, as per your command, the deserter of the Night’s Watch.” He said gruffly, gesturing for the deserter to be hauled forward. At least he had the northern burr going for him.

“My gratitude for your diligence, Lord Whitehall. You’ll be rewarded duly for your troubles.”

“There’s no need for that, my king, I only wish for His Grace to remember me as a loyal bannerman to him and his house.”

Eddard nodded, and then planted his eyes on the black brother who had forsaken his vows.

He looked haggard and dirty, with the little twitches of his eyes betraying his nerves. He was about to die after all, so his nerves were warranted.

Upon closer look, his lips seemed to move. He was speaking, or murmuring more like.

“Mother…they’re real…I saw them…by the old gods, they’re real…”

“What are you mumbling, oathbreaker?” Alyn grumbled from the side.

With a jerk, the deserter looked with frightful eyes at Eddard, and it was then that he realized how young this boy was. He could not be much older than Robb.

“What is your name, boy?”

“R-Robar, Your Grace.” He faltered. By the gods, his voice did not even sound like a man’s yet. His eyes were blown wide, as crazed as that of a cornered animal’s. A glint of resignation danced there, as if he had stopped putting faith in the order of the world. “I know I broke my oath. I am a deserter, aye, and I should have gone back to the Watch, but…” He shuddered, unable to speak for a second. “I saw what I saw…”

“And what is it that you saw…?” Jory questioned.

Robar looked straight into Eddard’s eyes “White creatures, Your Grace…Pale, milky creatures with piercing blue eyes…As s-smooth and beautiful as they were deadly…”

The greys of Eddard’s eyes fell to the ground before lifted them back up.

Surely, he was not speaking…

Of the Others…?

“I’ve seen them, my lord. The white walkers…” And then he went mute, face pinched in something that looked like deliberation. Robb was behind him with Domeric and Bran, while Jory grumbled something about grumkins and snarks.

Eddard once again scrutinized this young boy with his eyes, taking Robar in. His lips were chafed and a great deal of mud still dripped from his face, locks matted together like the braids of a rope. His clothes had seen better days, with various holes in his boiled leathers and torn laces from his gloves. The browns of his eyes shot left and right, frantic and frightened, the fingers of his hands twitching every so often. He looked like a wounded animal ready to bolt.

His furs had parts missing in places, and a dark stain around his groin confirmed Eddard where the appalling smell he caught a whiff came from. This brother of the Night’s Watch did not make much of an impression.

And then, his lips started moving again. “I know I’m an oathbreaker, I know I should’ve went back to the Watch and warned them, but I…” Again, the words died in his mouth, unable to fall over his lips. “I…saw what I saw. I couldn’t remain there no more…people need to know. Please, Your Grace, if you can get word to my family, tell them I’m no coward. That I’m sorry. Tell them they should leave. Go south, away from here.”

Eddard nodded after much contemplation, and gave the order to his men. They forced the young lad to his knees and angled Robar’s head upon the execution block. Domeric had taken hold of Ice, and now, Eddard had need of it, so he gestured for the boy to come closer. His calloused hands firmly grabbed the greatsword’s hilt before he jerked them back, unsheathing Ice from its wolfpelt. Eddard buried the tip of this mighty weapon into the dirt and remembered the words every King in the North spoke before judgment was given the old way.

“In the name of the old gods, I, Eddard of House Stark, King in the North, King of Winter and Lord of Winterfell, sentence you to die. Any last words?”

“Forgive me, my lord.”

 _It is not_ my _forgiveness you should ask, for it is not I who’ll judge you and your acts. The gods will see to it and give you judgment. I will only bring you to them._

Eddard hauled Ice into the air and brought it down swiftly. When his greatsword cut into the flesh of this deserter’s neck the blade severed the head in one clean sweep from the shoulders, landing on the ground with a fleshy thump. And just like that, the old gods had a soul to judge. The body was hauled up and carried away, and Eddard handed Ice back to Domeric so he could sheathe it.

Behind him, Eddard heard Robb commend Bran for not flinching nor looking away. This was why Eddard brought his second boy; to show him that the Starks still passed down the king’s justice like their forebears did thousands of years ago.

“Do you understand why I did it?” Eddard asked as he placed a hand on Bran’s shoulder. Robb took his place next to his father and gazed expectantly at his younger brother.

“Dom said he broke his vows.” He answered evasively. Eddard tensed his grip on Bran’s shoulder.

“Aye, but why did Father pass the sentence?” Robb continued for him.

“Our way is the old way?”

Pleased, Eddard nodded. “Our way is the old way. A ruler who hides behind executioners soon forgets what death means. I owed this man to look him in the eye before I swung the sword. One day, we will all face the judgment of the gods. One will come before them more honourably than the other.”

Bran nodded unsurely, not fully convinced. In time, he would.

“You don’t believe what he said then, Father? About the white walkers?”

Eddard pursed his lips in a thin line, brows knitting together. “No white walker has been spotted for a thousand years.”

“So he was lying?”

No, Eddard did not think Robar was lying necessarily. He had seen eyes that were mad, not deceitful. A madman sees what he sees. He had wholly convinced himself that whatever brought him to forsake his holy vows to the Watch and flee south were the Others.

For thousands of years, the Night’s Watch stood vigil on the Wall, guarding the realms of men from the creatures of the Long Night. Old Nan had many a time shared the tales of the Others with him, and in time, with his children. Of ice spiders, of giants, of the walking dead.

And none of them had been spotted all these years.

The Night’s Watch had their hands full with the wildlings. Over time, what started as wardenship over the lands beyond the Wall turned into a rivalry between the wildlings and the people south of the Wall.

Nowadays, it were those wildlings that posed a greater danger to the realms of men than anything else. Protecting the realms of men from men; surely, some fool would jest about it frequently.

Eddard made for his horse after he ordered the men around to make for Highpoint Keep. The journey back to Winterfell would take them a day, and the hour grew late. Tomorrow, Eddard and his sons would make for Winterfell and send a raven to the Night’s Watch. Not a bone inside him was convinced by Robar, but it had been a while since he had written Lord Commander Mormont. He wished to know how Benjen was doing.

“My king! A rider from the south approaches!”

Eddard frowned and followed his men’s line of sight. Indeed, a rider was galloping towards them, carrying the banner of House Stark, the cloth showing the grey direwolf wavering in the wind.

What was a rider from Winterfell doing here? Had something happened? The thought that something urgent had happened while he was absent brought Eddard into a slight panic.

The rider eased his horse into a trot as he came closer, and when he was within earshot, he stepped down from his stirrups and took a knee. Eddard recognized the chestnut locks of hair hidden beneath a helmet. It was one of Robb’s other companions. The heir to Seagard, Patrek Mallister.

“Your Grace! I bear a message from Queen Catelyn!”

“Patrek! What are you doing here?” Robb called out as his friend came to stand on his legs again.

“Like I said, Her Grace has a message for King Eddard. A letter to be more precise. She ordered me to guard this with my life.” The heir to Seagard brought a neatly folded letter from one of his pockets and handed it over to his liege lord.

Eddard took the letter, taking stock that it had been opened already. This was not a letter written by Catelyn then. He opened it, and his eyes immediately fell on the seal beneath the oddly familiar calligraphy. The red dragon of the east. This came from Essos. From the Holy Valyrian Empire. If that did not shock him into a stupor, the first words certainly did.

_Dear father._

* * *

 

 

 **DAGGER LAKE**  

 **JON III**  

 

 

“Again!”

A series of haggard breathes harshly scraped their way out of Jon’s lungs, scratching painfully over the walls of his throat as he wheezed in and out with erratic pauses. In that moment, Jon truly thought himself a fire-breathing dragon, for the searing heaves and grunts he elicited could not be described any other way than the breath of a dragon.

Jon felt the flesh of his calves burn acutely after all the exertion he put them through, and surely he had torn many cords of muscles around the edges of his shoulders and arms from all the swinging and stabbing. He felt like a doll with its stuffing torn out. Sweat had thinly caked his back in a sheet of glimmer, every roll of his back feeling as though a rivulet was trickling down his flesh. He was a mess of sweat and sore limbs.

It had been a while since Jon felt this alive.

Opposite him stood his opponent, standing there and swinging around an edgeless bastardsword with little difficulty, his face sporting a taunting smile; Bronn’s crooked smile, some teeth missing here and there, only added to that insufferably mocking look which made Jon’s blood heat up more than he wanted to admit. On the other hand, Bronn’s cocksure grin served to fan the lust for battle inside Jon’s veins further as well. His unscrupulous sworn sword grinned like he was having a good time at his expense.

In contrast to Jon, the Westerosi swordsman looked none too put out by all this. Quite the opposite, he looked fresh and ripe as a summer peach; Jon reckoned he himself looked like something Rhae’s cat once dragged inside the Scarlet Palace. Not that he could be blamed.

For the past few hours since the coming of dawn, Jon had been doing naught but mock fighting with his sworn swords to keep himself occupied. The journey towards New Valyria had caused a rash to spread in his mind, and Jala suggested some sparring sessions to scratch that mental itch. Jon agreed without a moment of reluctance. At least they were a better alternative than skimming through ledgers for hours. Ledgers that still needed tending; right now, Jon felt the Gods could damn him thrice over for his indolence and he still would not see to those stacks of papers.

Jon’s blunt shortsword shimmered like a dull beam made of grey steel in the trembling hand that hung at his right, the hold on the hilt tight but desperate. His other shortsword he held up in front of him in a pointed fashion, the tip of its blunt blade minutely directed towards Bronn.

“Are you sure you wanna keep clashing swords, Jon? You look like you can barely keep up that pretty thing’s weight for much longer.” Bronn grinned, coming to a slacker position as he lowered his weapon. At the sides Jon could hear Thoros and Jalabhar snorting, looking on like old masters-at-arms amusing themselves with the sight of green boys struggling with their first training. Once upon a time, that had been a real view, as they had been his martial tutors, thought that had been quite a long time ago. It felt like a lifetime had passed since he had an actual lesson from them. Nowadays, it was mostly sharpening his skills rather than learning. Jon found himself missing those days.

The hairs on Jon’s nape bristled in indignation at the audacity of his sworn sword for showing such lackadaisical behavior. Jon was astutely aware that should this have been a serious fight, a battle which only the spilling of blood would halt, any light-hearted humour inside Bronn would flood to the recess of his mind. He would show no mercy. How dare he insult him with this laidback attitude? Jon had lost count how many times he demanded his sworn swords never show restraint when it came to his sparring sessions.

Finally, Jon regained control of his breath, the erratic rise and fall of his chest no longer plaguing him. His hold on his swords steadied, and Jon yet again felt himself ready for another exchange. He was tired, yes, but the fire inside his belly still raged against the exhaustion. It was only natural that he felt himself burning up, but that did not mean he was about to lay down his swords.

Bronn had not been the first who Jon had forced to spar. Before him, it was Jala who crossed his curved swords with him, and before him, Thoros and countless of strawmen felt the swings and thrusts of his blades. The only man missing was Sandor Clegane, who was tucked away elsewhere in a corner, sitting on a crate and peeling some apples for himself.

The absence of Sandor’s participation was purposely so. Jala was only slighter taller and more muscular than Jon, so sparring between the two came naturally. Thoros was a short but stout man, and deceptively nimble, and Bronn was a thin and highly agile fighter with the grace and speed of a cat. All three, though older and more seasoned, were reasonable sparring partners.

But Sandor?

He was a creature best left undisturbed.

Jon was not determined, or mad rather, to request Sandor to join this pastime. The Hound was a man with few equals to match his brute strength. With only a swing of his arm he could probably cleave a man in half. And with little to no effort, most likely.

A full grown hellhound would devour him easily, dragonblood be damned.

The tip of his sword rose as Jon lifted his arm, pressing it against his cheek, holding his arm until both weapons were aimed at Bronn. “I haven’t yet broken through your defences. Until I do, we’re not going to leave this deck.”

Bronn’s laugh was loud and boisterous. “Have mercy, lad! It’s already midday, and we’ve been going at it since first light! You can hear my stomach growl all the way from Asshai!”

“I care not for your discomforts.” Jon replied with a swing of his sword, feeling the joints of his wrist loosen.

His words seemed to amuse Bronn even more. “Oh, you thought it’s for _my_ sake I said you should show mercy? Hah! Look at yourself! You’ll soon enough collapse on your own!”

The clash resumed the moment Jon made a dash for it, which he did with speed that surprised even Bronn. Jon’s swords were ready to deliver a series of quick swings and blows. Bronn parried his first swing which came from the left and backed off in order to dodge the second attack, a stab from the right. Jon did not give any quarter and followed with another slash coming from the left again, this one aimed at Bronn’s shoulders. And again, Bronn easily evaded the swing and kicked Jon in the abdomen, forcing him back.

“Mayhaps I should just let you do as you please, Your Highness. Dodge, parry, dodge, block. S’not much effort anyway! It’s a battle of attrition, and you’re clearly losing your provisions faster than you can forage!”

He effortlessly deflected Jon’s attack and countered with a slash of his own, aimed at the torso. Bronn was as nimble as a warrior could be, and he knew he was a natural talent with a sword; the kind of swordsman who knew he was a man cut from a special cloth. It also didn’t help that Bronn was not beneath using tactics which were untoward for his reputation.

Jon still eagerly wished to best this man. For the sake of having this done. His belly ached as well.

Jon decided enough was enough, and opted for some tactics rather unorthodox for him. The two adversaries stood across each other, strained like a couple of leopards ready to pounce. Jon made the first move, feigning yet another generic swing from the left, and Bronn, as expected, brought his sword to half-heartedly block the flimsy attack.

Jon acted quickly.

As his blade shrieked across Bronn’s, Jon leaned in and dropped both of his blades to the surprise of his opponent and onlookers. He grabbed hold of Bronn’s waist, snaking his arms around him. With a clean sweep of his leg, Jon stole Bronn’s balance and threw him towards the ground. His sworn sword hit the ground with a fleshy thud, and Bronn made his pain known loudly with a roar.

“Seven fucking hells, lad…!” He grunted, rubbing the back of his head where surely a bruise would form later. “Was that really necessary? And I thought I was a scurvy bastard…” For a split moment, Jon felt a bit of sympathy shaming him, but then he remembered who exactly it was he threw onto the ground.

Jon approached his fallen comrade, coming to a stop just beside him. “You were right, Bronn the Andal; a battle of attrition would have tired me out soon enough, and then, I would have been forced to hear you making a monkey out of me.” He gesticulated to Bronn’s supine position, feeling a somewhat self-satisfied smirk making its way to his face. “Had to think outside of the box in order to silence you.”

“You think you’re so smug, resorting to such tactics, don’t you, boy?” As a matter of fact, he was not, though Jon would be a liar if hearing how Bronn groaned like that did not slightly amuse him.

Only slightly.

In order to get himself up again, Bronn asked for a hand, and as honour compelled him to slightly right his wrongs, Jon offered his.

A mistake he would pay for.

“Joke’s on you, boy, because you’re forgetting something very important…”

And as if to punish him for his less than honourable way of achieving victory, Jon suddenly felt a painful kick knocking him off balance, causing him to tumble gracelessly towards the ground.

In less than a handful of seconds, Jon found himself lying on the ground instead, Bronn standing with a wolfish smile on his face as he planted a boot on Jon´s chest.

“I was born a right bastard, unlike your princely arse. I’d like to believe you got that kind of contrived thinking from your good tutors. Son, you’re way too young to start acting underhanded with the likes of me.”

From the sides Jon could hear the roars of laughter from Thoros. Jala had the respect to remain silent, but knowing him, he was most likely trying to contain his laughter to spare his prince the embarrassment. Thoros seemed none too bothered by his own antics.

_Cheeky bastard that he is._

A servant rushed forward as Jon made to stand again, and he accepted the pitcher of water, downing its content eagerly. Jon dabbed his body with a dry cloth, wiping off the sweat before he gave it back. When that was finished, Jon discarded his soaked tunic, took the one draped over the servant’s arm and dressed himself, not hurried in the least.

“By R’hllor, finally you’ve decided to call it quits. Sandor got quite tired of it all and got himself some apples.”

“Don’t act all coy now. You lot took a morsel to enjoy too. I caught you munching on a fat piece of roasted chicken leg over yonder. And you enjoyed it quite loudly.” Bronn grinned sardonically before he drank from his own pitcher, this one containing some brown ale found behind the barrels downstairs. Bronn had become rather fond of it ever since he found it.

Thoros chuckled good-humouredly, digging inside his robes to show the bones before he threw them over board. “For all your protests of not wanting to make a spectacle out of the training, it seems you’ve attracted a crowd with your display of swordsmanship anyway, my prince.” He commented lightly, taking Jon’s swords out of his hands.

“Crowd? What are you on about, Thoros?”

The round-bellied man nodded upwards, and Jon followed his line of sight, towards the stern, where the captain’s weather-beaten face grinned at the man missing the five joints of his left hand. Ser Davos Seaworth, the man with the most fitting name for a sailor. They spoke within earshot, discussing approaches of deterring mudcrabs and cuttlefish from damaging the hulls of their ships.

To his side was the girl with sable hair, gazing down with those big eyes of hers, green as the lush waters of Dagger Lake during late spring days. He took note of how they shone a few days prior, when the girl argued back and forward with Thoros the best way for skinning hares. Ashlyn Storm, a fiery baseborn girl whose mother was a serving wench at some seedy tavern she told, with the whereabouts of her father in the winds. She was a peculiar girl, with a silent confidence to her Rhae and Dany surely would have liked. Or would have liked to crack perhaps. If not them, then Aegon without a doubt would shower her with his attention. Aesthetics attracted him like moths to a flame and the people of Westeros sported quite attractive women.

Which was made all the more clear by the other girl.

She was the one that truly piqued Jon’s interest.

Princess Sansa Stark.

Or so she claimed to be.

The other girl, the one with hair the colour of beaten copper - or was it a shade of bronze? Jon could not put his finger on it - stood not too far from her friend and gazed down at them as well, though she averted her blue eyes the moment they crossed his, as she was wont to do these days,.

Cornflowers, he noted, they resembled the soft petals of cornflowers. Her eyes seemed to remind Jon of Dany and how she would twirl around the gardens swathed in Myrish garbs weaved from intense shades the colour of sapphires. She always loved the vividness of blue, in all its shades, she once lightly quipped when Jon took dancing lessons with her. Blue was the colour of the sky, the colour of grace, of freedom. Oh how Dany loved her freedom.

It was a slip of his tongue some days ago, but seeing as his momentary lapse made him reminisce how beautiful blue looked on Dany, Jon freely confessed he found Sansa’s eyes quite pretty. Since that day, she never looked him in the eye again. It was a bit jarring, because he preferred people to look him in the eye when he spoke to them, yet Jon shrugged it off eventually; he had a certain feeling her timidity had to do with the nature of Andal women. He had read about their religion, their Faith of the Seven, and how much weight was placed on virtue and propriety. Chaste, they called themselves. Prudish, Thoros snickered about them

Jon was no talented poet, nothing like Father was in his younger days, and neither was he gregarious like Aegon, who weaved words as if his tongue was made of lace. No, he was certainly none of that slithering stuff.

Jon had a certain talent elsewhere. He was honest to a fault. When he found something, there was no use in tripping over words about it. He freely spoke his mind about what he found righteous or appalling.

Jon had lost count how many times he was lectured by his mother, or Dany, or Rhae, to rein in that honesty.

 _But my fair lady, you are_ _indeed_ _fat…_

The memory came to him with a queer fondness; he was naught but a boy still clutching his wooden toys. The scolding that followed he too remembered. Well, at least the pain of being pulled by the ear he did. Rhae’s love pricked sometimes. Mother feigned disapproval, but afterwards, when those slighted dignitaries took their leave, she kissed his cheek and softly told him to better mind his tongue next time.

_The tongue can cut as deep as any dagger can, if not deeper. Always be mindful of your words, my sweet. A slight, however imagined or real, is like a dangerous infection. It’ll fester and consume, and if the host is weak-willed, control them until they get rid of who committed the slight._

A very accurate lesson.

One he seemed not to have adhered to.

Honesty caused him to butt heads with his brother more than he liked. Egg had taken after Father with his ways of intrigue and politics. Father did not particularly love subterfuge, yet there was a certain need for it. Rhaenys and Daenerys were cognizant of that, and also had a penchant for intrigue. Penchant, but not a taste. For them, the theatricalities and deceptions of the game was a toxin which would slowly erode someone from the inside if one played it too oft.

Aegon proved that.

Out of all of them Aegon relished in the game of powers, finding it a great source of amusement seeing puppets dance to his fiddle. It was a fairly recent manifestation, Jon noted. He remembered a time when Egg did not find it a great source of entertainment playing mind games and messing with the wits of others.

He reckoned Varys finally decided to spin his web around Aegon. Him, or another courtier shrewd enough to claw him away from Rhae’s fingers. Whoever it was, it caused Jon to slowly regard his brother with contempt.

Jon was his mother’s son, and if one thing the imperial court knew, it was that Lyanna Stark despised dishonourable upstarts scheming their way to power. That Braavosi man was held in particular disdain. His name currently eluded Jon.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Jon caught Bronn’s smirk. “We lost you there for a second, Jon. As far as we know, there’s been no cunt that you’ve tasted yet, and most men think about that when they’re off brooding like you just were.”

Jon shrugged off his hand. “Not all of us enjoy simple lives, good ser. I have matters to think of besides my considerations of who to wheedle next into my bed. Like that lot up there.” Jon pointed up.

It had been a week and some days now since the _Balerion_ took its leave from the anchorages of Volantis. Since then, Jon had interacted minimally with the girl claiming to be his blood by his mother’s side or her companions. Whenever he did, there was a heavy air around them. A prickly atmosphere that left him curious and confounded. Mayhaps it had to do with all the recent events leading up to this baffling situation.

Jon still remembered that day in Volantis, right before his departure for the capital and all the ruckus that followed suit. As if his plate was not full already as it was, this little development certainly threw him for a loop. It was difficult to make sense of it all, but for the sake of being pressed for time so much, Jon decided to allow this coterie of jostled stragglers to come along to the capital for the sake of keeping his patience.

There was little to lose anyway, bar some food and focus spent for their comfort.

Speaking of which.

Jon motioned for a serving girl to come near. “Notify the cooks, the sun is set at its highest point and I’d be a terrible host if I fail to serve luncheon to my guests.” Jon ordered as he finished buttoning up his tunic. The servants scattered, going about their duties, leaving Jon and his sworn swords alone on deck.

Ser Davos came down the stairs, the wood beneath his boots creaking slightly. “Your Highness, I must say, your skills with a sword are remarkable. I’ve seen men swing two swords at the same time before, but never like that.”

Jon parted with a nod, smiling politely. Ser Davos Seaworth was a pleasant man to commune with. He had a sense about him that reminded Jon of Thoros and Jala.

“Each day I train a different part of myself to stay sharp and healthy, and what you saw earlier was an occupation to gauge my speed. Though, if you wish to accredit me, you’re compliments are unfortunately misplaced. I’m not self-made after all; High Commander Dayne and these men here are to be praised for bringing me to such shape.”

“Trained by the Sword of the Morning himself? How did that come to pass?”

“My father, His Magnificence, met Arthur Dayne during one of his tours across Westeros when he was still a young prince. Dorne was the first place he paid a visit with his late wife, Princess Elia. By the looks of it, the two befriended each other, and since then, the High Commander remained in my father´s service. The people of Dorne and the Empire have always been particularly close.” Jon explained as he traipsed up the stairs leading to the stern with Davos.

“Reckoned he found himself a good place here in Essos. The man is a myth among us southrons for being a brilliant commander and fighter, but he vanished one day. Rumours said he was in Essos, and looks like it was true. I heard once a great warrior took on seven of your infamous Blackguards during Rhaegar´s Rebellion and slew five of them before a spear to his leg rendered him incapable. Must have been him, no doubt.”

Surprised, Jon hummed in agreement, a bit perturbed that Davos knew this. “Indeed so. I didn’t know Westeros took such a keen interest in the Empire. It´s not quite common knowledge what exactly happened during the rebellion that saw to my grandfather’s fall.”

Davos chuckled behind his fist. “Well, a smuggler has his uses during such times. I was there when it all happened after all. Had a skiff back in those days, an old woodworm infested thing, and one of my fellow sailors told me to bring onions and salted fish to Dragonstone for the refugees. Paid me a hefty price for my troubles.”

Jon stopped and clapped a hand on Davos’ shoulder, stopping him as well. He glanced back at him curiously. “That was you? Those were your onions and fish?”

“Aye lad, the Seven as my witnesses. Never made port there, but I never had to. A massive wooden monster slugged forward, and by the time I realized it was a ship, half a dozen dark clad fellas boarded my ship to unburden me and my crew.”

Jon snorted in disbelief, not believing how much fate played with them all to her heart’s content. Davos’ eyes remained questioningly on him, but Jon did not have the mind right now to speak about it. He would soon figure it out himself.

Jon and Davos made it to the stern and the two girls remained near the wooden railings. Ashlyn looked at him warily. Sansa´s face seemed to be made of stone itself. She was a difficult girl to read, never an inch of her guard low. Polite, pleasant, but shy too, which pretty much summed up her entire attitude during this voyage.

“My ladies.”

“Your Highness.”

Jon narrowed his eyes, frowning, not liking Ashlyn’s tone, though, it made him admire her a tad bit as well. Were it not for his stern upbringing, Jon _might_ have felt a chill down his spine at the reply. The response could not have been frostier. Ashlyn Storm, though baseborn and lacking any ounce of physical intimidation, still stood before her princess like a shield against arrows. Admirable, but mistaken. If he had been anyone else, someone twice his size with less than wholesome intentions, Jon hoped the same courage would be evident across her face.

“No need for you to conjure a storm with your eyes…eh…Lady Ashlyn?”

The crease between her eyebrows deepened. “I’m no lady.”

“You don't need to tell me, for I’m quite aware,” Jon agreed. “though I know not that how to address you elsewise.” She snorted in a very unladylike manner at his reply, something not seen oft in girls her age as it was viewed as unbecoming. Then again, what did Jon know about the antics of the lowborn? He never interacted with them, save now.

Ashlyn seemed annoyed, judging by the way her jaw clenched so tautly, but Jon continued, not taking her ire serious. “I merely wished to say that luncheon will be served in due time, an hour or so if I’m right. Feel free to partake, if it pleases.”

It was Princess Sansa who answered with a nod and a smile for the both of them. “We’re grateful for the invitation, my prince. Shall we see you there as well?”

“Yes, though, not like this.” Jon gestured to himself. “The reek of sweat still clings to my skin. I’m in need of a bath, so I’ll be taking that in the meantime.”

Another nod, and if Jon’s eyes were mistaken, he found Sansa’s cheeks to be a bit redder than usual. “Are you in need of the physician again, Princess Sansa?”

“Your Highness…?”

Jon tapped his cheeks. “Your face seems more flushed than usual. Are you coming down with a fever?”

The physician on board had determined that their scurvy had subsided completely. Ashlyn looked healthy enough, as healthy as any girl like her with barely any meat on the bone looked. The princess was much the same in terms of physique; thin, but not too thin, still growing. Although, what really brought Jon a lick of consternation was her skin tone; her pale complexion surely made all the tint changes across her face more apparent. It made him frown.

Her cheeks pinked even more than earlier, a bright colour that actually suited her quite fine. Brought out the delicate lines of her eyes and high cheekbones a bit more.

“There’s no need for that, I’m feeling quite alright. The herbs and frequent consumption of fruits have brought me health again, thank the gods. And thank you for your concern, my prince.”

Jon bowed his head curtly. “Good, keep it that way. You have no qualms with sour fruits so I’ve seen; it shouldn’t come as a hardship for you to consume them.”

Jon made for the stairs, but he heard the distinct lilt of Princess Sansa call out to him. “Wait…!”

Jon threw a parting look behind his shoulder, eying her with curiosity. And there came her demur again. the veneer of the unsure girl sprouting up, a slow but certain tidal wave flushing over her. But her sudden outburst had Jon’s attention, and he prodded her to continue. “What’s on your mind?”

She bit her lip, but came to a decision regardless. “I have a favour to ask.” Now this, this caught his full attention. These lasts few days Jon could count on a hand the scant few moments Princess Sansa asked him something.

“If it’s within my powers, ask, and I’ll see to it.” And yet again, it seemed the girl with hair the colour of sunset suffered from her bout of hesitation. The fickle changes of her confidence pricked Jon with a bit of impatience. “I’m still waiting, my princess. Patience is a virtue, Father always said, but the squalor of lurid sweat sticking to my skin is becoming grating. I’d like to have my bath sooner than later.”

And then, the dam holding her back broke, burst open like the caldera of a volcano, and the slant of her back came up in a firm line, straight as an arrow. Finally, _finally_ , a flicker of determination came to the blues of her vivid eyes as Princess Sansa regarded him with a hard frown. This was more like it; more like the girl from a fortnight ago standing up so vehemently for who she was. 

The corners of Jon’s lips ever so slightly twitched upwards.

“I wish to know if there is any way to communicate with the outside world.”

“And by outside world, you mean where exactly…?”

The princess huffed. “West, to the Seven Kingdoms, to the North. We’ve been sailing for some time now, and all this time, I’ve been anxious to know if there is any chance of sending a raven to my family.”

Jon considered her for a moment, scrutinizing her with an intensity that had Princess Sansa reconsider her bravado to speak so confidently against him.

A treacherous little voice inside him started whispering, murmurs of plots and guiles soaring through his mind, and her at the root of it all.

And yet…

A queer sense came over him.

Another voice, far more rational and far louder in its objection, spoke of how ridiculous the notion came to him.

In hindsight, Jon felt not the slightest sense from the redhead or her companions that hinted at deceit. Davos was an honourable man he had come to discover, even if his name was stained by the smirch of smuggling. The black-haired girl was not much different from the former, a girl with perhaps a mouth too loose and a temerarious heart, but a heart placed rightly. And then there was the last one, Princess Sansa, with her doe eyes, the innocent hope in there flickering with the strength of a candlelight, and her rather fragile but determined composure. Nary a thing betrayed them to be some devious group planning something.

This persecutory complex was foolish, Jon grumbled to himself. Was he this close to becoming like Uncle Viserys? Like his mad grandsire? A man who feared even his own shadow? Prudence was a very demanding mistress, and right now, Jon did not feel like pleasing her.

The imperial court had turned him into a cynic.

Mayhaps showing a bit of trust now and then would help ameliorate this tendency to try and see the downside of people. It would certainly help him get rid of that frown across his eyebrows. The tendons their always felt so painfully strained after a couple of days.

With a hand Jon beckoned for Thoros, eyes still on Sansa. “There is a rookery above, at the crow’s nest. It’s not much, only raven we have, but I guess the poor bird will finally beat his wings after so long. Write your message and hand it over to Thoros, he’ll see to it that it’s tied to its feet and off towards whatever destination you have in mind.”

Princess Sansa visibly loosened, a relieved sigh escaping through her lips. She smiled, one that reached her eyes and burned so brightly, Jon could feel its warmth from where he stood. For a moment, Jon thought he saw Dany smile at him. That smile he so oft remembered. It rattled Jon quite a bit and something tightened in his chest.

What was that all about?

“Thank you, my prince, and on behalf of my family. They will be gladdened to hear from me.”

Shaking his head, Jon let out a noncommittal hum and went in search of his bath.

The gods above knew how much he needed one.

* * *

 

Nightfall had come for them, the sky above shimmering with the intensity of a dark blue sea, a soft breeze sweeping down over them all. The clouds had stopped plaguing the sky, and allowed the thousand stars sailing across its expanse to burn, naked for the eye to be seen. A line was cutting through the darkness, like a sword coated in flames, leaving behind in its wake a trail so red, it looked as if the night was bleeding from a wound.

Rhaenys had once told him that the Dornish believed those stars to be Nymeria’s ships, and that she had led her people to a higher plane of existence upon their deaths after their exodus from the Rhoyne to Dorne. He found it a very beautiful story, and Nymeria had always been a figure he admired in the annals of history. This story only added to his admiration for the Rhoynish princess.

Jon also held a soft spot for the night itself; he seemed willing to lose himself in gazing at the twinkling stars during his moments of solitude. It was what brought him closest to those he loved, Jon thought, for surely, as he glanced at those brightly burning lights winking at him, somewhere in New Valyria, inside the imperial palace, whenever they looked up, the eyes of his family would fall on the same curtain of darkness with the same stars winking back at them.

The servants had just about finished cleaning up after the evening dinner. It was a dull affair, just as luncheon was, as he had reckoned it would be. All of Jon’s time shared with his guests, if they can even be called that, was filled with an uncomfortable air. Princess Sansa shifted in her chair a bit too many times, Ser Davos spun fine stories and all, but his tales dried sooner than his lips could conjure new ones and Ashlyn looked at the various dishes sprawled before her with a suspicious fascination. They were a strange bunch for him to understand.

Jon tried his hand at conversations himself, remembering his mother’s words that he should at least attempt to be a good host, but the words that came after his ‘tell me about this and that’ usually fell on deaf ears, for the fact that Jon was not very much paying attention.

His mind was preoccupied with more pressing matters.

Like the Dothraki and the Ghiscari movements.

Now, evening had come, the slope of dusk creeping up higher and higher as the sky turned a deeper shade of violet.

Bronn and Thoros had decided to squander their hard earned coin by gambling. Liar’s Dice was a favourite of theirs. Jalabhar stood at the side lines, merely watching, while Sandor leaned against a wooden wall, looking on with faint disinterest as he sharpened a knife.

The crew had also taken respite, watching the game unfold and cackling at every little twist of fate as Bronn and Thoros tried outdoing the other with their wits. The _Balerion_ currently lied adrift, floating on the waters of Dagger Lake peacefully. He had ordained the crew to take some rest, and they happily obliged. Though Jon was in a hurry, it would not do to have the sailors burn themselves out.

During daylight, whenever Jon tried to gaze around him and catch a sight of the shores or Summerhall, he would always come up empty-handed in his endeavour. Dagger Lake was grand, and the sailors did it justice with their bragging tales. Now, he was surrounded by darkness, with not a source of light in sight except for the stars above.

A series of loud cackles tugged at Jon’s attention, making him raise his eyes from the tome he was reading. He was losing interest in reading it as pages went by. Xi Long’s documentations about the Jogos Nhai were not particularly interesting.

Jon fixed his eyes and listened in on the bawdy jokes circling around. Apparently, Thoros had won a large bet and was now raking in the profits.

“Look at him go, grubbing at those coins like a filthy harlot after a good night of business.” Bronn laughed as Thoros and his fat belly pressed against the table crate, his hands gathering the chinking pieces of gold.

“If your wit is half as sharp as your tongue is filthy, you wouldn’t see me hoard this boon, hah! Come on now, Bronn, step up the ante!”

“I got a better idea…let’s expand the game! I challenge the peacock for a game of Liar’s Dice!”

Said Summer Islander jerked his head up before his face changed into a cocksure smirk. “I accept, mate.” He pushed himself off the wall and sauntered over with his usual swagger.

A seaman placed another crate for Jalabhar to sit on, and he threw an appraising look at the Westerosi. “The stakes?”

“Three moons of my soldiery.” A few men whistled appreciatively. Jon frowned however, displeased. Bronn was about to gamble with 450 gold coins. Wherever did he even have that amount of gold? He was not paying the fool so he could waste it. Jon understood Bronn’s love for pear brandies, but what fool would spend such an amount on wine?

Jala let out a chuckle, his interest now certainly spiked. “Against?”

Bronn’s hand went to his pocket and brought out…a pendant? No, a locket, it was a locket.

“I want her.”

…Her?

Bronn opened the locket and dangled it before Jala’s eyes. He went as rigid as a plank. “How do you know of her…?”

Bronn’s answer was a chuckle of his own. “Oh, my dear friend, you thought you could keep her a secret from me? The walls have ears, and you grunted out a very special name quite loudly last night!” Bronn wiggled his eyebrows. “I want the Diamond of Lys for a night; Lady Serra.”

“Fool, you think a mere 450 gold drakes can garner her attention? She’s worth at least ten times the weight.”

Bronn's grin showed he was undeterred. “I’m aware. The 450 drakes are for you to share her whereabouts. The Diamond is a picky lady, and she can be only approached by those she’s known.”

Jon scoffed loudly, shaking his head while his eyes rolled as he overheard their conversation. _Of course_ it concerned a gods damned whore.

Bronn sat down, his face sporting a challenging look that dared Jala to step down and put his name to shame. Thoros looked on with interest and settled down in his seat, silently joining in on this. After a few grumbles, Jalabhar nodded and took a seat, taking the cup from a crewman and throwing in the dies. As he took his seat, Jala brought out a piece of silk and placed it on the table. Bronn let out a bark of joy, satisfied, and Thoros eyed the cloth hungrily. Whatever it represented, it had to do with this ‘Diamond’ of Lys.

The three found their perch, tension rising as they jiggled before slamming their cups on the wood of the table. Suddenly, a fourth cup joined them, the hand attached to none other than Sandor Clegane himself. If Jon was not startled by now, he surely now choked on his own spit.

“What’s this…?” Jon heard the Summer Islander growl.

“I’m in. Matching their wager.” Sandor said gruffly. His arm had shoved aside a few onlookers while the other cradled a large crate he could sit on.

“Hah! Now we’re talking! This just got better and better! You sure you’re witty enough to deceive us, Hound?” Thoros jeered, Bronn following his example with a chuckle of his own, raising his mug of ale to his lips.

Sandor sniffed merely. “The die is cast. I’d say we’ll soon find out.” He allowed his eyes to rake over the other contestants. “I bid five threes. It’s your bid, Jala.”

A chuckle bubbled out of the Summer Islander’s throat, finally swept up in the merry air. He took a short peek at his cup and then cast his eyes back to his adversaries. “Seven fours.” He countered. A series of hushed chatter erupted, some even outright laughing at Jala’s audacious claim. It was Thoros’ turn, the fat red priest smiling broadly.

“That doesn’t sound very convincing, now does it, Jalabhar? I’ve smelled more confidence in you during our battles than I do now!” His hand went to his amulet and nursed it gingerly. “But for the sake of keeping it interesting, I’ll let it slide. I bid six sixes.” Now that was bold and brazen. Six sixes out of twenty dice was quite tricky to pull off. Not impossible, but still difficult.

There was a bit of uncertainty hanging in the air, not a soul uttering a single word. Jon found it rather amusing; his sworn swords looked on like they were about to wage war.

Suddenly, the silence was disturbed by Bronn’s answer. “Ten fives.”

“You jest…” Jalabhar exclaimed in disbelief. Thoros looked just as incredulous, but his tongue remained in his mouth.

The Hound fixed his seared face on the Summer Islander, the flesh around it puckered and hideous, like that of a silent monster but not quite so. “Call him a liar, or up the bid.” He did not, and so, all four participants slightly opened their cups and peered at their dice.

The key to Liar’s Dice was the talent of keeping an appearance. Some players even used the game to further their skills in intrigue, for the ability to lie and dissect lies were of paramount import. It was why Jon was no good at it. Lying came to him as naturally as ignorance came to Rhaenys. For a second, Jon wondered who the better liar would be between her, Varys, and his brother Aegon during Liar’s Dice. All of them were extraordinary in their own right when it came to the waggling of their tongues to a tune. The question was, who of them could discern a false tune, and who could discern a sweet song between the three.

It was Sandor’s turn, and he looked with nary thing on his face betraying him. “Twelve fives.”

The crew reacted uproariously. Bronn whistled loudly, Thoros roared just as hard as the people around and Jalabhar ground his teeth.

“There is no way.”

“Twelve fives…” Sandor repeated, a menacingly growl leaving his mouth. “Call me a liar, or up the bid.”

“And be called a liar myself for my troubles…? Show me your hand!”

All the participants sedulously raised the veil over their dies. Jalabhar’s was the first, with three fours, a two and a six. After him came Thoros, who grinned as he showed his four fives and a four. Bronn went next, cackling as his hand showed three fives, and two twos. Jalabhar joined them in their spirits. The total hung now on seven fives. For Sandor, that meant he needed five fives to match his bid, or lose 450 gold drakes. The chances were not in his favour.

“Lady Luck isn’t smiling much down on you, dog. Chances are slim you’re gonna pull off your bid.”

Sandor grumbled under his breath, and raised the cup. The shadows over his dies retracted bit by bit, and Jon counted one, then two, three, four fives. And they stopped there.

The last die had fallen on a one.

“Seven fucking hells…” Bronn muttered in wonder.

If earlier the crew sounded energetic, they now sounded positively cacophonous. A loud cheer erupted, and even Jon found himself smiling just a tad bit at the exuberance. Some sailors clapped Sandor on the back, who managed to smirk victoriously at a seething Jalabhar. Thoros stowed away his wineskin after taking a large gulp of its content, while Bronn merely shook his head.

Sandor stood from his seat and opened his hand. “The favour?” Jalabhar grabbed the silken piece of cloth between his fingers and tossed it at Sandor, whose smirk widened further when he caught the white square of silk. “I’ll try not to tire her out too much the next time we make port at Lys.”

The excitement died down as the crowd dispersed. The hour grew even more late, the darkness thicker and the stars brighter. The hour of the bat was approaching; Jon reckoned most people had decided to retire for the night. Thoros was bleating like a sheep and scratching his belly, a telling sign of his fatigue, while Bronn and Jalabhar decided to share a few drinks inside the ship.

“Your Highness. Still awake I see?” Sandor muttered as he placed the last crate in its place.

Jon gave a nod. “Sleep hasn’t yet found its way to me. The air outside doesn’t help me find it either.” Indeed, the slight breezes blowing down on them felt gentle and cool to the touch, like soft kisses. They prickled the senses, and Jon found it quite pleasant.

“You want me to stay and keep guard?” He offered, and Jon shook his head.

“No Sandor, you can leave for your bunk. I’ll see you on the morrow.” The giant man grumbled his assent and marched off, disappearing in the shadows and leaving his prince to his own devices.

Jon had taken a seat nearby the wooden rails, easing himself upon the chair he ordered to be brought and allowed his mind to wander as he gazed at the stars.

In a sennight or so, they would be arriving in New Valyria, and the thought brewed mixed feelings inside him. A great part of him was ecstatic to see his family again. His heart missed his mother’s lilting voice, Rhae’s charming wit and Dany’s radiant smile. He missed his talks with Ser Arthur about strategies and tactics. He missed the flower gardens and the amphitheatre and the imperial menageries.

Jon begrudgingly admitted to himself that a part of him even felt something kindle for Aegon. He was his blood, his only brother, who matched him word for word, and then some in terms of wit.

And yet, that same feeling caused him to heavily dread his homecoming, for Jon feared that, as the years had passed, not a single part of Aegon had changed. Jon wondered if he had stayed the same as the philandering crown prince preferring the company of whores and mummers over statesmen mandated to teach him the ropes of governance. Preferring to drown himself in excessive pleasures and indulgences, carefree and without consideration towards duty and family. Preferring to look down his nose at everyone who he found beneath him. Jon did not like to think about that being a truth.

For Jon, his bond with his brother was a double-edged sword, a coin with two sides.

He both loved and hated Aegon. Loved him, for he was a man easily loved, all winning smiles and a wit sharp enough to match Valyrian steel. Hated him, for he took such liberal advantage of his exaltation.

He was a man sequestering his talents behind a careless spirit, squandering it in the meantime. What Jon would not do to have a bit of Aegon’s talent. Any fool could swing a sword, but conquering with words instead of swords, that made a true conqueror. Breaking the adversary’s resistance without fighting. That was Aegon’s talent.

Jon was honest to himself, he knew he would not be strong-willed enough to rule the Empire, nor did he wish to do so. His only desire was to serve his family honourably. A leal servant to a good cause. If Aegon had been the elder brother he always wanted, one committed to his duty and crown, Jon would have been the first to draw his sword in his name, perhaps even lay down his own life for him.

Alas, it turned out that the man he wished to be his greatest idol changed into a man he came to despise.

Carrying disdain for a brother was taxing. Jon did not enjoy it.

And then there was the question of his father, Emperor Rhaegar.

He and Jon did not part on good terms either.

“Prince Jon…?”

His head jerked to the right, towards the stairs leading to the deck. Jon took in the visage of Princess Sansa and felt himself straightening a bit. He came to his feet and crossed his arms behind his back.

The princess shielded herself with a cloak of a nutty colour, draped heavily over her narrow shoulders. The light of the moon above shone generously over her fine features, putting extra note on her bronze hair and causing the blues of her eyes above her high cheekbones to shine just a little bit more. Indeed, the women of Westeros were very attractive, Jon decided.

Valyrians were beautiful by nature, the most beautiful people in the known world, but Princess Sansa herself shone like a pretty gemstone in her own right. Valyrians were oft compared to diamonds, and if Valyrians were diamonds, then Princess Sansa was a ruby.

Sansa’s beauty made him wonder how Dany had grown in the years of his absence, or Rhae. To him, Daenerys had always been the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, and Rhaenys followed suit very closely. For certain, his aunt and sister’s beauty must have grown even more pronounced during the years.

“Still up and about?” He inquired, gruffly, but not unkindly, and stepped a bit closer.

She nodded timidly, a little smile on her face as she remained by the stairs. “The night’s sky is too pretty to let pass. I sometimes like to watch the stars shine. From my bedchambers, that wasn’t much possible, so I decided to venture out towards the deck to see them more clearly.”

“Without your chaperone?”

“You mean Ashlyn?” Sansa replied and Jon gave a slight nod. “She’s not my chaperone.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Ah, my apologies, mayhaps I should’ve said your sworn shield.”

Her cheeks reddened at that, but she maintained a frown. “Ashlyn is dear to me, and I to her. We’re in foreign waters, so it’s natural for her to act so protective. We look after each other. Is that so bad?”

“Not at all, I’d say, I respect that about her, but she’s a bit too obvious in her fondness over you. Allow me to tell you something.” Jon stepped even closer, and now, he could see Princess Sansa turned a bit taciturn at the proximity. He came close enough to maintain proper distance, but if Jon wanted, he could simply lift a hand and caress the redhead’s cheek. “She’s a brave soul, that friend of yours, wiry and strong-willed, but bravery won’t get her very far, least of all in situations like the two of you are in now. Ashlyn acts spirited, and those who burn the brightest shatter the quickest.”

“How would you know?” The princess asked, a tone of genuine curiosity laced in her question.

Horrible memories came to Jon without consent, and they made him frown in sadness. Memories of burned villages, screaming children and women, dead bodies littering the ground and the sound of a thousand hooves quaking the earth.

Jon would never, could never, forget the naked woman who writhed on the ground outside the gates of Saath, begging to be killed than further suffer the shame and humiliation she had gone through by the hands of those filthy horselord brutes for the rest of her life. She had been raped by fifteen Dothraki screamers, and that was only the previous night, some dwellers said with pity. The Dothraki had pillaged outside Saath for almost four days. He did not want to know how many Dothraki had defiled her during that time.

Three weeks after Jon left the outskirts of Saath, he wiped Haggo’s host off the map like the filth they were and turned the Painted Mountains into a mass barrow for them.

A dark sense of satisfaction still crept up his spine at the memory of their obliteration.

“I’ve seen many people break, brave men and women, shattered by the hands of those who took note of their brightness.” Jon whispered. “Be brave, be strong, but never let them see how strong you really are. Monsters like breaking things that are strong, it makes them feel like they’ve accomplished something in their wretched lives. Only when the time is right, let your strength shine. Let it wash over them like a tidal wave breaking through the dam. They’ll never recover from it.”

Princess Sansa seemed to mull over his words carefully, biting her bottom lip in thought as she looked down. A frown was etched on her brows, a delicate sign of thoughtful pondering before it straightened and she firmly nodded once. It seemed she came to a realization of great import.

“I’ll talk with Ashlyn about it.”

Jon snorted, something he rarely did in Sansa’s presence. “Don’t make it sound like I’m scolding her. I get enough of her frosty frowns.” The red on her cheeks became a bit more apparent, but she smiled shyly as an answer. “Do you wish to go back to your chambers?”

The princess shook her head. “Not yet, I wish to enjoy the cool air a little while longer. Reminds me a bit of home.”

“Home?”

Jon witnessed how her sapphire eyes, for the first time in a while now, gazed directly back at his own, a flicker of longing dancing there. “Yes, home. The North is much colder than this, but, I feel something else while I’m here, staring at the starry night. Freedom.”

Jon did not know how to react to that. Part of him understood her, and part of him did not. Father once said that no such thing as freedom existed. Once you grow old enough, freedom abandons you. Only children and fools were truly free.

Which was why he understood as well. Jon’s boyhood had been free. He remembered it fondly; the flower gardens, the water gardens, the menagerie.

Jon shook his head; it would do him no good reminiscing about his childhood.

Jon offered her his arm, to her surprise. “Well, I suppose you and I are in each other’s company a while longer then.”

It was proper decorum to offer a lady your arm, Jon remembered Rhae telling him on a searing afternoon in New Valyria, after a few dignitaries came to kowtow before Father. Apparently, he had wholly ignored the daughter of one magistrate, much to his chagrin and her grief, and the pompous fool mildly complained about Jon’s lack of courtesy. He himself was not much bothered, but Rhae certainly was.

So, she had taken it upon herself to give a proper scolding, and then a few lessons on propriety and finesse. His sister had practically dragged him around the floor pointing out even the manner of his feet, until Mother came and saved him from his tyrannical sister. That was when Rhae’s tutelage on proper etiquette had started. A painful period Jon looked back at with a deep fondness.

Princess Sansa took his arm and looped hers with his, a bit shyly at first, but that quickly evaporated when they descended the stairs and walked among the wooden railings. There was a pleasant silence hanging over them, with her slender arm bare, a sheet of gooseflesh over them, pressing against his sleeve.

“Tell me, Your Highness, how come you’ve found yourself in the company of…” She trailed off, demurring and seemingly trying to choose her words carefully. Jon regarded her with a confused look.

“In the company of…?”

Her bottom lip came between her teeth, something she did whenever she hesitated to speak, Jon noted. “Forgive me if I may sound crass, for it’s not in my nature, but I can’t help my curiosity; your sworn swords are not what I would’ve expected from guards to a prince.”

Ah, _that_ company.

Jon shrugged. He could not find any flaws in Sansa’s logic; his sworn swords looked like a rag-tag of bandits more than prestigious guards to a prince.

“I recognize worth where it is due. They may be an unprecedented example, but they’re good at fighting. Really good. I’ve seen few people match my sworn swords in terms of battle excellence. Thoros inspires in many a fervent battle furore, and I suppose that’s when his robes of a red priest truly shine. Zealous warriors are advantageous. Bronn and Jalabhar are charismatic warriors, a bit too much influenced with dark humour, but soldiers have want of that as well. If all my commanders are austere such as myself, I’ll never inspire loyalty. And Sandor is simply Sandor; where Thoros inspires, Sandor terrifies. And to be fair, it goes a bit more personally as well.” They halted at the railing, Jon’s eyes gazing at the black waters in front of them, before he raised them to look at the half-full moon.

“All of us are cowards in essence.” Jon confessed bluntly, and he could feel how the princess reacted with shock, cocking her head away from him a bit. Jon proceeded. “Jala, Thoros, Sandor, Bronn, all four of them ran or are running away from something. Bronn was once married to a lady and given a keep, Stokeworth the name was, a boon from King Robert Durrandon for his participation in the War for the Trident. His keep was beset by outlaws and put to the torch not long after, with his wife captured and carried off to some hell pit. With nothing left, he packed his bags and ventured east. That’s how he eventually came into my service. The sot managed to hold off three imperial soldiers with just a blunt dagger, holding a bag of stolen apples in the other. If that’s not impressive, I don’t know what is. Jalabhar Xho is an exile who was deposed from his seat, a backwater called the Red Flower Vale somewhere in the Summer Isles. Since his exile here in New Valyria, he has done nothing else but try to amass wealth and influence so he could one day raise an army of fellow exiles and opportunists to reclaim his home. A man trying to win back what is his by rights, as meaningless as his home may be. Thoros is a good man, but he wears the wrong robes. He’s not fit for being a red priest; while his faith is strong, his peers look at him with disdain, considering him wicked and false. He feels as much at home in a temple as children in a slave camp. And Sandor? That man is truly someone frightening, both from the outside and inside.” At that, he could sense Princess Sansa nod her head, and it brought a snort out of him. “He carries demons few of us can understand. Just looking at his burnt face tells you as much. He didn’t get that scar by falling into a hearth. Whatever haunts Sandor Clegane caused him to leave behind the lands of his forefathers and eventually take up the sword as a guard of a foreign prince. Not an easy decision, I’m sure. As for myself, well, I suppose while I’m speaking ill of my sworn swords, it’s only fair I share a bit of dirt about myself too.”

Thoughtfully, Jon looked at the waters, searching for the correct words. Were there any correct words to begin with? Why _did_ he join the imperial legions, now that he actually took a moment to ponder it? Was it truly Aegon, Father, court life and all the venomous snakes around trying to sink their fangs into him that made him serve for five years in the imperial legion? Or was it something different?

“For the longest while, I’ve kept telling myself that I left the capital in the hopes of bringing glory to the Empire, to my family, but not even I am so stupid to believe that anymore. There have been…matters that changed my perspective. I thought fighting off a vile adversary such as the Dothraki would help me find answers, find purpose, but all it did was further confirm the obscenity of this world. Nothing more. I persisted, and adapted, but my service to the Empire left on me no impression. I feel like I’ve wasted my time; somehow, dissatisfaction still plagues me, no matter the glories I’ve gained. I’m still left wanting.”

Did that make him avaricious…?

Jon realized he was rambling, and offered a wry look. “Forgive me, I don’t usually go off on tantrums like that. So now you know why I associate with such company.”

Princess Sansa seemed to take satisfaction from Jon’s explanation. Now it was his turn to satiate his curiosity.

“What of you? How come a girl such as yourself finds herself with a smuggler and a baseborn for companions?”

Realizing something, the princess smiled bashfully. “I’ve recognized worth where it was due, something I haven’t done in years prior.” She disentangled her arms from his and rested her hands against the railing, staring at the moon. “You and I sound a bit alike in some regards, Your Highness. I too have come to discover truths about the world, painful as they were. My girlhood was filled with dreams and wishful thinking. I used to be a besotted girl, drunk on fairy tales and love songs, hoping one day to marry a handsome prince and live the rest of my days as someone’s lady love and mother of his children.”

“And did that came to pass?”

A hollow chuckle spilled out of her mouth. “No, it did not. The handsome prince I was betrothed to was as handsome as he was cruel. Beneath the gold, the festering rot. He allowed for his false knights to beat me whenever it pleased him, finding amusement in my suffering. I can still remember the pains the flats of their swords caused me, or the purple bruises blooming on my skin from their punches. Joffrey Durrandon was no prince; he was a blight. A cruel boy who just so happened to be the heir of a king. No man as vile as him could dare call himself a prince and order his men to beat his betrothed for no other reason than his sick pleasure? I think not. Every day, I thank the Seven that our marriage was never consummated. The thought alone repulses me.”

Jon regarded her sharply, the bite in her tone so vitriolic, he practically heard the poison dripping off her tongue.

This was the reason why the Storm King’s bride fled? Jon had only heard _that_ she had fled, but never the way of it. Indignation blossomed inside Jon on her behalf, almost giving way to white-hot rage. No girl should have been subjugated to such treatment.

Princess Sansa had adopted the look of a forlorn creature again, the same look she had the first time Jon had met her. “And so, I decided enough was enough, and I escaped. The gods took pity on me and gave me passage to the east, to the Holy Valyrian Empire.” Her hands knotted together. “When I stumbled upon you, I thought my prayers were finally heard. I finally found family. Safety. And in some regards, I did. You may not have welcomed me with open arms, but you were at least not cruel to me. A kindness I’ve missed for a long time.”

Jon tore his gaze away from her, unwilling to meet her eyes as an uneasy knot formed in the pit of his stomach.

When he first laid his eyes upon her gaunt face, soiled clothes and skinny appearance, he thought a slave girl and her smuggler had come across him. A slave girl who happened to have heard some rumours regarding the Storm King’s betrothed fleeing his lands, a girl with auburn hair and ocean coloured eyes, and decided to take a desperate gambit in masquerading as someone she was not.

His suspicion was unfounded. The days that followed, the princess showed impeccable decorum and manners no slave girl could have ever hoped to mimic. Not even Rhaenys matched Princess Sansa in terms of manners and the like. When she had recovered from scurvy and regained her strength, it became more and more apparent that she enjoyed an exceptional upbringing. She was all pleasantries, bows and courteous smiles. The image of a proper lady, a proper princess.

But Jon was stubborn, an inherit trait his mother told him he got from her, Stark obstinacy she said, and his suspicions did not ebb away as much as he wanted them to.

But just as Jon was stubborn, so too was Princess Sansa.

At every turn, she would insist who she was, who her father was, which House she belonged.

 _Princess Sansa of House Stark, daughter of King Eddard Stark_.

_A Princess of Winterfell._

_Someone not so easily frightened._

Jon had never heard someone exclaim something with such pride. He felt his obstinacy faltering. Princess Sansa, while she did not look like it, bore some resemblance towards his mother. Lyanna Stark, the fierce empress who also allowed herself to be moved to tears hearing Father’s harp and singing voice. There was a certain aspect he recognized in her as he did in his mother.

And what proved to be pushing his slow acceptance of the girl standing in front of him as his estranged cousin the most, was that Jon did not stomach easily the suffering of women. The way Princess Sansa spoke; she had a certain edge to her. Not one she was born with, but one gained from experience. She was no innocent girl; she knew what suffering was.

Call it chivalry, honour or basic desire to shield the frail and innocent, but Jon could feel his hand clench in restrained anger at what she just told. There was no hint of deceit when she spoke of her suffering at the hands of Storm King Joffrey. Her voice betrayed only pain, sorrow, regret, and resentment. Feelings even mummers would find difficult to imitate. Her recounting even managed to make him bristle.

So, the more and more he listened to her, the more Jon felt himself accept her insistence that she was indeed Princess Sansa of House Stark. That she was indeed his blood by his mother's side.

And perhaps a small part of him had already accepted who she was the day she fell in his arms, but that his tendency to highbrow barred him from admitting that.

“If it’ll soothe your mind…” Jon started, the words leaving him before he could stop himself. Princess Sansa eyed him again, slowly, her delicate neck twisting to face him and those bright blue eyes like a set of pools bearing down at him with reserved caution. Clearing his throat, Jon spoke more firmly. “If it’ll soothe your mind, I’ll rescind my unwillingness to recognize you as my cousin.”

“Truly?” She whispered softly, a little hitch in her breath, like she could not believe it herself. Sansa’s hands suddenly clasping his so fast, Jon was momentarily blindsided by her agility. Jon was taken aback by the sudden contact of skin, and Princess Sansa remembered herself, the moonlight shining down on her skin accentuating the rising flush of her cheeks, but before she could pull back her hands, Jon squeezed her hands gently.

“Yes, it seems my misgivings were unwarranted.” Oh, how she smiled at his words. A smile full of relief, of joy, and of something else Jon could not espy. Whatever it was, it shone bright, blindingly almost. It even threatened to bring him to a smile, almost at least. A shame he had to put a lid on her joy. “However, what I said a sennight ago still holds true. Even though you have me convinced of who you are, it’s not my favour you need. It’s my mother’s.” And again, he squeezed her hands, willing her to engrave his next words into her mind carefully. “Beware, my mother is a force of nature. The imperial court fears and despises her. Father is cold as ice, ironically, while Mother burns like wildfire sometimes. For almost two decades of her life, she had herself surrounded by serpents and spiders. Her hatred for liars is well known, for though she does not mingle in scheming and plotting, she can elsewise tell apart lies with little effort. The moment you stand before her, she will weigh the value of your words. Of your conviction. Anything else but the truth, and not even can I assist you when she orders your dismissal. Do you understand?”

Princess Sansa nodded quickly, conveying her understanding. Jon certainly hoped she did. Mother was harsh, but forgiving. Harsh with those who defied her and the Empire, but forgiving to those that bent to her will. Whoever incited her wrath was very unlucky. Some courtiers viciously remarked that, at times, the spirit of Maegor the Cruel arose in the empress. Maegor with teats. But to Jon, sometimes, the court needed a Maegor. Not as a ruler, but as a justiciar. That was Mother; an advocate of order, not allowing weed to grow out of hand.

“If she is as reasonable as you are, then hopefully, Aunt Lyanna will receive me in her arms, just as you did eventually.”

Jon nodded once, and backed away from her. He peeked at the sky, and saw how high the moon hang. They had been here longer than Jon thought.

“The hour as grown late, my princess. I’ll be retiring for my chambers. Are you able to find your quarters on your own?”

She gave a nod and a friendly smile. “Yes, Your Highness. Please, don’t bother yourself by tending to me, in the span of a week, I’ve become quite familiar with the halls and rooms of the _Balerion_ . Your exercises must have tired you out, I’m sure.”

As if to confirm that, the burning ache of his muscles came back to him without alert.

“Then I’ll be taking my leave. Ah, and one more thing.” Jon said as Sansa was about to look back at the moon. “If we are to consider each other kin, drop the princely formalities. They’re bothersome anyway, and my sworn swords call me by my name; it would be strange for us to speak as if we’re mere acquaintances.”

“Very well.” She smiled again. “I shall refrain from addressing you as such. Have a goodnight, Cousin Jon.”

Cousin Jon. He did not dislike it, and Jon reckoned there was still some familiarity to be explored before they would find it comfortable to speak more plainly to each other. He took it for what it was worth.

“To you as well, Cousin Sansa.”

And then, he descended the stairs and disappeared through the wooden door leading further into the stern. His feet dragged on, and everything around slowly became a blur. His mind felt like it was all over the place, sitting there inside his head like a rock. Fatigue came to him in waves he previously held at bay it seemed; he could feel it bleed into the merrows and sinews of his body.

The only thing Jon found worthy remembering the day by was the softness of his featherbed, and how much he realized his body craved it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me a while to write it, but here it is then, the fourth chapter. If you think the other chapters were fillerish, you're going to hate for this one, because this feels, to me at least, as another filler. Nevertheless, chapter 5 is going to be quite important, with various characters meeting and it will further the story much more, though, I think the fandom will be quite busy with S8, and therefore, I have a lot more leeway in terms of setting out updates.
> 
> Tell me your thoughts, likes, dislikes, whathaveyou. I'll be waiting for them eagerly!


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